Pulcherrimae
by Poseida Lunar
Summary: Harry Potter is a hero of characteristics and accomplishments. He is also an exceedingly handsome man. Why is it important? It is when you're a Veela and have no idea what to do about it. Veela!Harry, post-war, HPDM slash. HIATUS.
1. The Most Important

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything related to the world of Harry Potter. All recognizable character, setting, props and ideas belongs to JK Rowling. No copy infringement intended, no money is being made off this fan fiction. It is written solely out of adoration and for fun. Don't sue. I'm broke.

**Warning:** this is HPDM slash with a Veela!Harry and a Dark!Draco. There is none of that sub or dom thing going on here. Sexual explicit with language.

**Author's Note:** I kind of miss all those creature fics, especially the ones involving veelas. So yeah, decided to make one for the second time. Here's my take on it. Enjoy the ride! 8D

Thank you for beta-ing, Sailormulti01!

* * *

Harry Potter was an exceedingly handsome man.

At the age of one, he injured one of the world's most powerful and evil sorcerers, Voldemort. He banished him to limbo, where the lord barely thrived between life and death. At the age of eleven, he became Hogwarts' youngest Seeker ever, being a first year when he joined the Quidditch team. At the age of fourteen, he competed in the famous Triwizard tournament, a challenge that once only resided for those who were over seventeen. At the age of seventeen, he defeated and terminated the Dark Lord once and for all; thus, lived up to his given title, and at the age of eighteen, he became the youngest Head Auror in the history of Britain Ministry.

Harry Potter was a person of characteristics and accomplishments. He had gone through school, made friends, put up with his Muggle relatives, and done his potion homework – all the while balancing the weight of the world on his other shoulder. Some call him great, haters call him not, but most of all, we need to know the fact that he was an exceedingly handsome man.

Why, might you ask, was that detail the most important of all? Why not talk about his deeds? Why must we talk about his looks, the part that least concerned a hero? Looks weren't important to true heroes, why was Harry being handsome important?

Sometimes Harry wondered why too.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're very handsome?" Verona MacBethe said and took a small sip of her tea with her pinkie sticking in the air.

Verona was a beautiful half-blood witch with lustrous brown hair and bright blue eyes. She was the daughter of one of his best Aurors in the department. They met at a dinner party last week.

He smiled back, a gentle and polite smile he used all the time. "Why, what a compliment Ms. Macbethe, you enlighten my heart," he answered, succeeding at keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. She blushed, muttered thanks and continued to sip her tea.

Harry sighed. He was twenty-three and hadn't had a steady relationship after he broke up with Ginny three years ago, even though women catered themselves to him every day. Maybe it was because of his title and money, maybe not. Every single one of them called him handsome. That wasn't false by any circumstances because handsome was what he was. Still, Verona would be a good lay but no more, just like the rest of them.

"That's what you are," she said again, this time in a whisper and with a deeper, redder blush. "That's what you are, Mr. Potter. I think you're very beautiful - Oh my, did I use the wrong word?! I'm sorry-"

"Nothing to go ballistic over." Harry cut her off with another smile. He didn't feel like having sex. He was too tired.

"I'm sorry, but I can't seem to find a proper synonym at the moment," she said with a hint of humor. "I mean, you always look so good in those pictures in the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly. I just thought you'd be... less appealing in person, since that's what I deduced from personal experience. People always looked better in photos, especially with all those editing spells they have today to remove the flaws. If I didn't know better, Mr. Potter, I'd think they've _added _flaws to your pictures."

Yes, Verona was very easy sounding. "Why are we here discussing my appearance when there's an even fairer lady in my presence?"

At his flattering words, she giggled again.

* * *

"_You're beautiful- Oh, I don't mean to be rude. Men can be beautiful too."_

"_I love you."_

"_Hello handsome."_

He stepped back and viewed himself in the mirror- a nightly ritual he would always perform after the evening shower, gazing indifferently at the face that made them adore him so much. He touched his scar, pushing back locks of black hair. The sight of his reflection was almost painful.

There was a tiny twig at the very bottom of his family tree. All the way back to the time of Merlin, in the midst of confusion due to the Twelfth century Renaissance of both Muggle and Wizard alike, one of the Potter heirs - Lars Potter, if he remembered correctly - had an affair with a Veela. The produced child, a little girl named Erissa, was able to pass as a legitimate Potter child, after much alteration of looks and blood, and lived on in the household as one of their own.

How? Harry knew not. He never really bothered with family history anyway. Though now, he regretted not preparing himself for this.

Somehow along the way, the Veela blood that was imprisoned all this time broke out and fought off the Blood-Ensconcing spell. He didn't know if it was the duel in the final battle that dissipated it, whether the amount of magic he released and felt gave this wilderness a new strength or not. He didn't know if the spell weakened over the past centuries and eventually worn out; because six months after his seventeenth birthday, mood swings started to occur more and more often.

It wasn't that strange. He had thought they were a result of the nightmares Voldemort had inflicted on his mind during the battle; that he just needed time to get over it and calm down. The others agreed with him; Hermione even suggested going to the newly opened rehab at St. Mungo's to heal his mind and stabilize his emotions, but Harry agreed to Ron's method of drinking calming potions instead.

It didn't concern him much when he started to find kissing Ginny disgusting. He was saddened, maybe; they had been going out for over half a year after all. It just seemed so strange to suddenly not like her; a girl he'd always dreamt would be his future wife. Still, he told himself, he must have gotten tired of her. Things could happen, people could change. She endured with him for as long as that, Then, after a big fight about him not loving her, they broke off and each went their own separate ways.

For two years since then he messed around with women, alluring and seducing one after another with such ease that it amazed Ron and brought a spot in Hermione's busy political life, who thought him being a "player" while holding such an important position in society wasn't appropriate.

"But I won't meddle with your life, no matter how much I hate the way it is; it's your prerogative... But, damn it, Harry, I hope you know what you're doing because one of these days..." she scowled at him, shook her head and shut up.

That was when life got boring. That was when being handsome got him to think. After wandering around so much, after so many women like Verona, Harry started to see.

Last year was the first time he truly looked at himself in the mirror and grew suspicious. Those emerald eyes were too bright to be a human's. The ivory skin was too flawless. His hair that never seemed to tame? Many men had tamed their hair and some were even wilder than his. Yet it was him, after trying so many charms and products, who can't restrain those chaotic strands. He decided there was something wrong with the way he looked.

Night after night of research, he found out.

According to Newt Scamander's _Guide on Veelas_, a book that went out of print in the seventies, male Veelas were rare but did exist.

Harry couldn't tell anybody. He knew how people felt about half breeds. He saw the way people treated Hagrid. He saw how much Mrs. Weasley disapproved Fleur - a part Veela herself, only accepting her out of guilt for Bill. He saw the way people used to sneer at Tonks, who told him of how her former classmates used to hate her because she passed her Transformation tests without effort. Looking back, he remembered Remus and his being werewolf, he noted the discrimination Muggle-borns faced in the society and told himself to just pretend that his beauty was a little gift from his great gene pool.

After all, celebrities were supposed to be handsome.

It was too much, though. As he became more informed, Harry the Judge started to surface within him. He saw flaws in his past lovers, discovered the goods and the bads. It became harder and harder for him to pick one out of the great basket of women that lay in front of him. Everything became bland. Everyone became ugly.

He confessed that part to Hermione.

"Harry," she had replied with amusement. "Do you find me ugly?"

He'd looked up in surprise at the question and began to observe his female friend. "Well... No, but, you just don't..."

"Appeal to you?"

"Yes, you're pretty and all, 'Mione, but I don't find you attractive. It's like Ginny. She got old. She got boring."

"Have you ever thought about the trees on the other side of the mountain?"

To this, he blinked. "What do you mean?"

She was about to open her mouth to explain, then stopped herself and sighed, deciding not to and said instead, "I really don't know, maybe it's you. Take a break for the sake of Merlin. Settle down with someone instead of fucking around so much. You haven't stopped long enough to really get to know anyone, don't you realize that? Take a girl and try sticking with her for once!"

He tried, couldn't do it. Nobody kept his attention anymore.

Then three days ago, he reread _Guide on Veelas_, and found a quote. "A Veela or a part Veela only stays with the one who can compete with her in every way possible, a being who is, to her, the most attractive of them all."

"_...The most attractive of them all._"

* * *

"Are you sure, Mr. Potter?"

Rita Skeeter pushed her rectangular glasses up her face and licked her lips with excitement. Though it was a question of doubt, Harry could see the anticipation in her greedy eyes beneath the spectacles. The familiar Quick-Quotes Quill was already quivering by her side, waiting and ready for his first word.

"Of course. By the way, it's quite nice seeing you again, Ms. Skeeter, I see that Azkaban did you no diminishing, did it?" he mused.

A little harsh of him to mention Azkaban, but that was exactly what someone like Skeeter would need. The woman tensed up and flashed him a forced smile.

"Of course not."

Harry hid his own grin. She was arrested for her mistake of not registering her Animagus form. The Improper Use of Magic office had sentenced her one year in the wizard prison. After she got back from there, no paper would hire her anymore.

As far as Harry knew, she was forbidden to transform. From the lack of money came the lack of a home; she had been living in shelters around Great Britain after the sentence was served, sometimes Muggles', sometimes wizards'. Her knowledge of the Muggle world was very limited, so surviving there was already a no-no for her. He knew she dared not mess this chance up.

"Now, shall we begin?"


	2. The Most Ridiculous

**HARRY POTTER DESCRIBES HIS PERFECT WOMAN**

_By Rita Skeeter_

Harry Potter, savior of the Wizarding world, has gone through harsh times during the war, where he single-handedly defeated the Dark Lord in a glorious battle on Hogwarts grounds. Now, years after his epic doing, the hero we all know and love is back with a new problem: finding the perfect wife.

"I always used to be a loner, growing up in the Muggle world. I still didn't socialize well in school when I first went to Hogwarts. I guess it's having an effect on my present," I quote Mr. Potter, who explained to me the reason for his many failed attempts. "I can't find anybody."

So what is he looking for in a woman? After innumerable trials and errors with many lovely young ladies, Mr. Potter decided that he finally knew whom - or the qualities of the said whom - was good for him.

"Beauty," said Mr. Potter. "I know this sounds crazy and probably seems like a superficial thing to look for in a partner, but I believe beauty is number one. Physical attraction is the first thing that triggers a sexual and romantic relationship. Without sexual attraction, it's nothing. I don't think personality would make up for anything in my case if I don't like the way she looks."

Whilst many of us are taken aback by this rather bold statement, Mr. Potter confirmed that it was exactly what he looks for in a lover first. "You don't make love to someone because you both like the same Quidditch team or both enjoy reading _Hogwarts, a History_," he offered jokingly. "You make love to them because you find them attractive. It's the start of everything."

"So, is a pretty lady all you're looking for?" I asked him.

"Well not really, I like fierce and competitive people. I've found out through my experience that most women often weaken too fast. It's so hard to find strong minded ones whom I could have civil and intelligent arguments with. I like someone who has a sense of danger, someone who is adventurous. I want to see life in her."

"Any more requirements?"

"I guess no more. Beauty and a competitive instinct are all I ask for," he answered.

* * *

Never in his life had Harry Potter expected a smack in the face as the first morning greeting, then a scream in his ears as the second. Sure, for years of his life, Aunt Petunia had kicked his cupboard and bedroom doors, screamed at him too, but she never smacked him.

Startled, he jumped up from his bed, snatched his wand from the bedside table with speed and threw a quick hex at the air in front of him. This only made the person hit his wand out of his hand and smack him in the face again.

He couldn't see a thing without the Sight charm he had to cast on his eyes daily, eyelids too tired to even open, but his body flinched with every blow from the mysterious person until he finally gave up fighting and tried to shield himself with his bare arms instead.

"'Mione, Merlin's left toes... Hermione stop that. You've been hitting him for the past ten minutes," Ron's voice nagged in the background. Harry tried to raise his head to see if it were really his friends, but instead, received a hit right on his nose. "Oh, ouch," Ron offered helpfully.

"Wait - hey - what the fuck is this about?!" he cried. "Stop that! Stop that right now!" Quickly, he shot out a hand and grasped the weapon she was holding - a roll of papers - and ripped it from her grip. He threw it aside and was about to start getting up when a hand came in contact with his left cheek, stinging the skin as the impact sent him falling back onto his bed again. Ron tsked, probably hiding by the doorway.

_That coward_, Harry thought with annoyance then got slapped again.

Finally, Hermione left him alone to change.

Twenty minutes later, he stepped into the living room in his most casual wear: a white Muggle tee-shirt and jeans. It felt weird. He was the only one who was dressed for this unintended occasion they were having here.

Ron was in striped pajamas with crusts around his mouth and eyes. Hermione was in her bathrobe, her brown hair still dripping wet from a shower. He stared at them, thinking about the abnormality of the scenario. Usually, people did it the other way around; guests were the ones who dressed up. And Usually, people who came into your house in bathrobes were friendly looking.

Hermione seemed pissed.

Even before she threw her copy of the Daily Prophet at him, he knew why she was mad.

"How the _fuck_ can you say that?!" she screamed, one hand holding her very pregnant belly, the other curled up into a fist, shaking at him. "I thought you were better than this, even after -"

"It might not be him 'Mione. We all know Skeeter -"

She glared daggers at her husband, silencing the red headed man. Harry shifted uncomfortably at his spot as she turned her head around, getting back to him. "I've had enough with this so-called lifestyle of yours! Too far is too far, I'm not standing here doing nothing while you scoop to this low a degree. I want an explanation, and I want it now!"

Ron then said, "Harry, you're not going to let Skeeter get away with this right? I mean, I know that nobody's going to believe the paper and you're not going to gain anything if you sue her, but still. I hope you're not just letting this go."

The couple waited for his answer.

"I'm not taking anything back," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "I mean what I said to Skeeter."

"But _why?!_" Hermione yelped. Ron frowned then opened his mouth to gape.

The look of anguish on her face almost reassured him. Sure, it was what he was after; finding his One to get this whole mess over, to cure this... disease, if he could call it that but he also knew people like his friends will be angry. He understood, it hurt, but gave him relief that someone will be there to tell him he was wrong. In a strange way, their disapproval gave him thrill.

"I don't know. It's the way I feel about things now, I guess," he replied.

"So are you saying that being beautiful is the most important characteristic there is for a woman? Is that really how you see love? Beauty? Really, Harry? Do you have any idea at all what you've said implies, what you're _starting?!_"

He looked down on the floor with indifference. "I'm sorry."

"That won't do it!" she snapped.

"Mate," Ron started. "You're literally saying to the world that you will give yourself away to the prettiest girl you can find."

Harry smiled a little smile.

* * *

Narcissa Malfoy's favorite flower was, to the surprise of many people, not Narcissus.

She looked from behind the garden's main tree- a three hundred year old great oak- and through the transparent window of her son's study chamber, twirling the stem of the yellow dandelion in her hand- a flower, though not pretty to compete with any others, can thrive like wilderness itself.

She felt tears wetting her eyes again, and felt the rocks that sat within her throat and heart for the past three years growing heavier.

Her mind wandered as she just stood there, thinking about how, if it was three years ago, it would've been Lucius she saw when looking at the window.

Now it belonged to Draco. It wasn't that she wasn't pleased about her son finally taking a stand in the world by himself without his father for once. She was proud. She was happy to see him all grown up and matured. Yes, but that wouldn't take away the pain of losing her other beloved.

"Mother?" her little baby whispered. Narcissa whirled around and quickly dried her tears. She couldn't let Draco see her cry.

The younger Malfoy cocked his head to the left questioningly. A warming expression adored his handsome face. The familiar surge of pride invaded her heart for a moment as she admired the person who used to be her little boy; the one who held her hand, crying, as she dragged him out of the toy shop at age five.

"Celestina Warberk's new song is quite touching isn't it?" she said, and let her tears flow free now that she had a reason to.

* * *

When he finally read over the article that late afternoon, Harry gained a new fear that he might have left the wrong impression on people. He wanted to blame Skeeter for it but knew it was what he had said. The woman wrote exactly what he told her to write. No more, no less. It seemed like such a good idea at the time. Perhaps he was so frustrated that he acted too impulsively on the whole thing. Could this really find him a mate?

Looking back and forth between the cons and pros, it was the only way to do it without revealing himself. He couldn't spend all his days searching for the One that will fulfill his needs. He didn't want to anyway, but the Veela instincts, the longing for a certain someone was strong. The girl could be anywhere, anybody. If he could not find her, he would make her come to him.

A yellow file hit his desk with a loud _thud,_ snapping him out of his daydreaming. He looked up to find Vita Larousse, a trainee, grinning.

"How was it?"

The girl sat down in the chair, still keeping that victorious look on her face. "I think I did great," she gushed, her eyes shining with pride. "That thief didn't even stand a chance against me. I'd thought he would be stronger, but he's really weak. One _Stupefy_ and he was down! Did you know that not only did he steal the Ruby of Aqua but he broke into the Bridgewater's family vault as well? He hid all that gold under the pocket beneath his right armpit. It was a quite disgusting thing to do but I guess when you're stealing something, you have to take extra measures. His right armpit reeks like an abandoned Muggle dumpster on a hundred degree summer day! The Bridgewaters will be so mad when they find out that their coins smell too. The man actually used a Stinking charm - the nerve of him!" She took a break to shake her head.

"I really think I'm ready for the final test. Can I take the final? Can I take it now? Please?"

Harry raised an eyebrow at her enthusiasm and sighed. "How did Malfoy do?" he asked, ignoring her pleas.

It was very hard to miss her transformation of expressions, which immediately shifted from delight to a dark scowl at the mention of her instructor.

"He's an arsehole," Vita stated. "I don't like him."

This, sadly, did not surprise Harry. It was what every trainee who had been under Malfoy said, not to mention Malfoy's own trainer as well - a half-blood brute who declared that he could not stand teaching a "block-head snob" anymore. Malfoy had only managed to pass under some confusing circumstances. Harry detected bribery in the mix, but it was never proven. Still, Malfoy was a good Auror despite his terrible attitude, and he was the only available Auror who didn't have a partner Harry had to worry about.

With that two lined report; he dismissed Vita Larousse with an autograph and a promise of scheduling her final test around late May.


	3. The Most Alone

Draco Malfoy never considered his childhood lonely.

He had his very own kiddy broomstick at the age of one. A Trixie Kit when he was just three was completed with the five inch mini-wand, fake sparkles and the handbook of spells. He had two bedrooms, his own Quidditch magazine collection, and a camera; which he spent hours each day with in the garden, taking pictures of any unusual flying creatures that might have flown there. The gnomes too, of course, he could never forget the garden gnomes. Though now that he'd grown up, they became more of the pests they originally were, than fun.

As a child, before going to Hogwarts, Crabbe, Goyle, Blaise and Pansy weren't in his life at all. He never went anywhere except Diagon Alley, where he would be taken to shop once in a while. He learned everything at home through hired private tutors, learning Astronomy in the spring time, Potion during the summer, Magical Creatures during fall, and Magic of Weather in the winter. There were English, Latin, Arithmetic and Anatomy lessons all year round.

They kept his life busy. They taught him the Pureblood customs and rituals. They taught him to hate Mudbloods.

So no, Draco never saw himself as a loner. He liked working by himself, running his own show, him alone being the center of his universe. He liked it when everything went his way. Why should it be any different now?

"Because," Head Auror Potter snapped at him. "We're not kids anymore."

Draco stared back with an expressionless face- or at least, he hoped it was expressionless- as he leaned back and endured Potter's rant.

"Malfoy, you've got to get over this fucking ego of yours. You're working for the Ministry, not skulking around Knockturn alley. You need to trust somebody!" he said, not screaming, but the way he said it made it sound like he should be.

This was weird. If they were back in Hogwarts, he would have punched Potter in the face before the first sentence was even completed, and would have probably casted a spell or two if no one was around. Then, he would have kicked him in the stomach, and left the Golden boy there to do some more damage later on once his head cleared up.

The Malfoy entwined his fingers together and set them right below his nose as to hide his twitching lips. Years had passed, and he still felt like punching the Golden Git's face.

But he could not afford to. Just imagining the amount of negative publicity he'd receive made his head spin. Draco had enough from just being the only ex-Death-Eater working in the Ministry, he did not need more. No, he'd wait for his chance.

"...And look at this," Potter continued, pulling out a file that Draco recognized as Vita Larousse's, a trainee who was assigned to him for that no-big-deal mission just a few days ago. "She did not fail on timing, Malfoy. I've personally tested her myself. She has good reflexes and knows advance spells for someone her level."

"Ms. Larousse is too impulsive," he indicated.

Potter gave him a look. "Malfoy, reflexes mean instincts. You aren't supposed to think."

"I never said anything about thinking. Plenty of people act on their instincts without having to act like a hyper little runt -"

"An energetic mind is encouraged."

"I thought being an Auror is serious business, not child play," he all but snapped.

Potter sighed. "Of course it's serious. What I'm saying here is that enthusiasm and determination are two of the most important qualities we look for in an Auror and these qualities will most likely be found in a person with an energetic mind."

Draco drew back, no longer seeing the point of arguing any further. He gave up on disputing with them a long time ago, knowing he would eventually lose. He'd always lost. All they needed to do was point out the Mark branded on his left arm and everything will turn around and go against him.

"You're right," he said, only seconds away from wanting to snarl out those words. "Fine, she passes."

Potter stared at him with his vivid green eyes and he found himself drawing further away. Humiliation burned his cheeks as he realized the childishness of his surrender.

He pushed at the desk, ready to stand up and leave the office. This meeting must be over. Neither of them had spoken a word for at least two minutes.

"I didn't call you up here for Vita Larousse. Sit down," came the sudden command.

Draco swallowed a growl, but obeyed.

"I want to talk about you."

He felt his entire body going tense at what Potter said. He gazed down, hands curled into fists.

"How is your mother doing?" Potter asked softly. As if he was singing a low hymn of some sort, almost like Narcissa was his business, his own mother, not Draco's.

_Almost,_ Draco thought bitterly,_ like he cares._

"She's doing fine, the Healer put her on calming potion, she's doing much better now," he said monotonously, not wanting to care why he asked. People always stuck their noses into his business.

The-Man-Who-Lived-Twice nodded with understanding. "That's good to hear. It must have been terrible on her, with you know, your father." A bead of sweat trickled down his neck.

"This whole thing must have been hard on you too."

Draco's lips pursed. "Are you suggesting that I'm too weak for this job?" Trust Potter to find some loop hole around the code of Aurors to get rid of him. The Ministry didn't need a weak slacker who cared more for his mother than his duties. Then again, they didn't need a former Death-Eater amongst them either. They would cheer for his leaving.

The Golden Git didn't need him, he hated Draco. If he left, people would be so much happier, feeling so much safer. In a way, he was relieved too. Getting sacked from that was certainly a better option than getting sacked because he punched Potter.

"Of course not," Potter said after a moment of silence. "I'm merely suggesting that your mind is in an unstable state."

"So I'm crazy." This time, Draco sneered.

The Head Auror closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Malfoy, I'm not saying that you've gone loony, but the way you act around your fellow Aurors is downright cold. You don't associate with anybody; hence, you don't even have a partner. You never attended any of our dinner parties, you don't have friends. You don't socialize, period. Then there's always your anger issue. Yes, I know about it. You look like you want to pick a fight with somebody every minute of the day when they barely gave you a glance. You're not in control of your emotions. That's not productive." After a while, he added. "I know you can do better than this."

"You don't know me," he accused, more than ready to throw that punch. "Nor do you control my life. If I don't want to make friends in this… place, then I won't. What's wrong with that? I work just fine alone. I do my job. I get paid. I leave. It's that simple. Is the great Harry Potter going to do something about this? Are you going to force me to make friends?!" By the end of his little speech, his breath was already irregular, and he could feel his teeth grinding.

The two men glared at each other.

"I want you to take a partner," Potter said.

"There is no one," Draco said in his iciest voice.

His school arch rival rose up from his seat, narrowing his green eyes. "When we are here, I am your superior, and if I say so, you will get, have and _work_ with a partner, Malfoy."

That was said with finality.

Draco Malfoy stormed out of the office.

* * *

The first thing he wanted to do with the hand on his shoulder was to slap it away. Then he'll turn around and hex the person who touched him. The second thing he wanted to do was to contact Rita Skeeter and tell her to publish an article about the fight between Malfoy and him, just so he didn't have to repeat the same story over and over again for... the eighth time? The tenth?

Oh yes, people were curious about the reason Draco Malfoy had gotten so mad after their little talk. They were all just looking for more juicy drama from others to put a little spice in their boring lives.

Although, when he turned around, instead of facing a bewildered colleague with an open mouth, or a grinning one, ready to give him a high-five, a head of pure gold caught his eyes. At first, he thought it was Malfoy - hardly anyone he knew had blond hair - then he recognized him to be not.

Or _her,_ to be more gender-factual.

The girl quickly stepped back, flushed with embarrassment and blue eyes glazed with awe.

"May I help you?" he asked, confused as to why someone he didn't know would contact him physically like that, especially for it to be a young woman.

"Hello Mr. Potter," the girl said, trying to keep her eyes away from his scar. "Um... My name is Astoria Greengrass."

The Greengrass? Harry blinked, trying to dig up the surname in his mind, thinking maybe he had heard of it somewhere. What business did he have with the Greengrass? Was the girl's brother an Auror? "I'm sorry. I don't believe I know of your family -"

"Oh no," Astoria interrupted. "Not my family. I," She took a moment to breathe, too deep of a breath. "I read the Daily Prophet the other day and... I thought..." She bit her lips, looking down the ground with something close to shame, getting Harry even more confused. "I love you!" she finally blurted out.

There weren't many people in front of the Ministry building, but there were enough stares to make Astoria turn even redder.

Harry fought down a cringe. She was beautiful, very beautiful. Possibly a Pureblood, if he wasn't mistaken. Was the Greengrass family of pure blood? Oh well, her blood status shouldn't matter, but...

"And?" he asked, not knowing what else to say.

Astoria then tried to Apparate, and Splinched herself.

* * *

"That wasn't my fault."

Harry looked so ignorant about the whole situation that it might have saddened Hermione had she not been so overwhelmed by rage. Still, she managed to not fly off the couch and at her best friend due to Ron's Super-gluing charm casted on her bottom, sticking it to Harry's couch. It was a good thing, because moving around might put Libby in danger.

Yes, she had already named her baby girl Libera, nicknamed Libby, or Hanson if it turned out to be a boy, but she wanted a daughter more. Ron wanted Billius, his own middle name. Ron can go screw himself, she decided, when her husband told her his preference.

"Harry, you know very well that it was your fault!" she screamed at him. Her throat was sore, but she screamed anyway.

"Well fine." He threw his arms up in exasperation. "It was partially my fault, except I don't know why! But you can't blame it all on me."

"You were right in front of her, why would she -"

"I don't even know what she wants from me!" Harry cried. "I have no idea why she tapped me on the shoulder! I don't know why she'd suddenly introduce herself to me, and frankly, I don't know why she tried to Apparate."

"Do not - Wait, she _what?_"

"She tried to Apparate -"

"Before that."

"Well," Harry said, shrugging. "She introduced herself to me for no reason. I don't know her. All she said is her name and for some fucking reason, she giggled, then told me she loves me. I don't know..."

"_What?_"

"I said-"

"I know what you said!" Hermione was sure that her face was bright red by now. "Harry, you and your fucking article! I told you, didn't I tell you? Why didn't you tell Skeeter to clear this up?! You could've labeled it a fraud, yet you didn't. I told you to!"

He was about to retort back, then stopped, and slumped his shoulders.


	4. The Most Alive

An earthworm tickled her pale cheeks as it crawled across her face, slow in movement, slimy like a snake. Of course, she couldn't see it; her eyes were closed, but the sensation of its skin- so different from the dirt that surrounded the rest of her body- made it hard not to tell them apart.

Oh yes, the dirt around her too. It was loose, almost tickled her skin like the worm did. Funny, this wasn't how she thought it would be. When she was a little girl, she imagined her own gravestone all the time after her father's funeral. She had gazed into the six foot hole before they tossed his body in - had seen the terrifying darkness that made the hole look bottomless. Obsession began almost immediately. In her dreams, she dreamt of dead bodies being compacted together; mud muffling the nose, preventing breathing if one could breathe.

But no, the earth was comfortable, in a sense. If she could move right now, she would have laughed at her former self's fear and stupidity.

She had died for her lord.

Being an infamous Death-Eater, they'd chained her body up, even though they ruled her as dead, and kept her locked in a cell. She could still feel the eternal coldness after all this time, how it numbed her muscles, froze her mind so she could not think. Then, they buried her, not an honorable and proper bury like her father's but a shallow dig into the earth, a toss of body, and a cover-up.

They'd never thought through the possibilities carefully enough had they? Careless, careless Mudbloods, and the equally disgusting Mudblood-Lovers... Careless Potter boy.

They really thought she had died. No, she died to live. She died for her lord, her one love. She died for him so he could live, so she could live, so the Dark could live again; careless, careless inferior traitors of magic.

They did not understand. They lacked the capability to.

Her lord's voice had lived.

_Adduce me ad vitae._

He spoke in their holy language, honoring it by mixing his speech with Parseltongue. Her lord trusted her with his ability. She could understand every word. His command gave her confidence. She knew what to do now.

_Adduce me ad vitae._

Bellatrix Lestrange's hand shot up to her forehead, caught the worm and giggled with pleasure as she felt it being squeezed by her fist. She pushed through the loose and dry dirt and into the night, breathed the new air, feeling alive.

* * *

"Here's your new mission, Luther. There has been a report from the Veela hive beneath Ben Nevis that a Common Welsh Green flew in over sea and settled on the mountaintop, they're not sure if it's tired or ill. Either way, we have to get it out of there somehow before Muggles see it. They described it to be a male, old, judging by the color of its scales, and normal in size. I've already assigned twelve other people with you on this mission and contacted a Dragon expert. Be prepared to leave tomorrow."

"And what do we do with the dragon?" Luther asked, already scanning the information in the file Harry had handed to him, no doubt looking for answers as he questioned.

"I'd like you to find some way to transport him over to Romania. There is a reliable team of Dragon caretakers that I trust very well over there. If you can't, try the one in Northern Ireland. It's a rather small coop but they should be able to handle a Welsh Green." he said, hands busy scribbling away on the parchment in front of him, not even bothered to look up.

Silence dragged on for minutes in the office, save for the scratching of a quill on parchment. Then, Luther spoke up, "But what about that Death-Eater who got away with that -"

"Collis and MacBeth are on him," he mumbled back.

Without another word, Luther walked away.

He had been the one to guard the front entrance of the Department of Mysteries. That day when the masked Death-Eater got away, Luther raved about some forces in work dissipating his spells, saying that the Death-Eater caused disruption within his wand. Saying it won't channel magic properly, therefore, he was helpless at stopping the thief. The thief, whom they still had not uncovered the identity of, got away with a precious "stone" of the Unspeakables.

With cold fury, they demoted Luther and demanded a new guard, shaming the man. That was a month ago. Ever since then, Luther would storm into his office, seeking for any new evidence or maybe a new mission concerning the Death-Eaters. Harry thought he tried too hard.

"It was just a bloody stone," he murmured to himself. That was wrong, of course, Harry knew it. Even the smallest piece of stone could possess incredible powers. That was why, back in Hogwarts, Snape never gave them a whole stone. It was always crushed powder mixed with a variety volume of sand or clay, or occasionally sulfur, to balance - none of their professors had, now that he thought about it. It was comforting to think of it as not a big deal, even though judging by the rage expressed by the Unspeakables, it was - quite obviously - a big deal.

The Death-Eaters hadn't done a thing yet and that was the important part.

"And if they'd tell us what the stone does, it'd make our hunting ten times easier." he murmured again, thinking about the silence of the Unspeakables when he'd asked them what the thief had stolen.

Then he dropped his quill, the ink on the tip made a tiny splatter on the half word-covered parchment.

Here it was again.

He touched his forehead with his hand and closed his eyes, waiting for it to be over: _The wail of the Veela's blood._

"Fuck," he cursed as the wail pitched into a small sob. The smooth, monotone cries always numb his mind but those one-second sobs stabbed at his whole body with coldness even worse than a Dementor's, and a Dementor's Kiss was exactly what this felt like.

It started around the time of the mood swings, a mild case he thought he was suffering along with the nightmares, and took potions for it.

Then the answer came with research.

At first, he thought it was a periodic thing that would happen at a certain time in a month like Remus with the moon and women with their menstruating. But then, he'd get one two days later to the prior. Sometimes he'd go without a wail for months. There was no pattern, the crying, and the haunting wails…

It was the way his Veela's blood screamed. It'd tell him of only one thing, every time; _I'm lonely._

* * *

Astoria nearly swooned when he stepped into the restaurant. He spotted her instantly; her white and forest-green dress made her stand out, like a rose amongst wild weeds. The beauty of a delicate rose was an exact description of her look. A white rose, Harry decided, red was too lustful. Pink? No, not pink. White, pure and beautiful.

From the very first impression, he knew this wasn't going to work.

"I'm so glad you agreed!" she gushed with delight as he approached their table. Many heads turned to stare at him, mostly with awe.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see two _Witch Weekly _reporters snapping away pictures like there was no tomorrow and he snorted in his mind. When would this get old?

"I was afraid you wouldn't, because of what happened last time, but I can assure you that me and my family don't blame you. My mother was a bit mad of course, but it only took a little explaining for her to turn around."

The way she bounced around him reminded him very much of Luna Lovegood high on sugar and not at all like a daughter of a neutral Pureblood family. His lips curved into a smile. "You are certainly a very enthusiastic person," he said, neither a compliment nor an insult.

No, this wasn't going to work at all.

After dinner and escorting Astoria home, Harry went on his own way, more down than ever. She looked sad, knowing the two pats he'd given her on the back meant rejection. "I hope we can still be good friends," she had muttered to him afterwards.

Oh yes, good friends. He should start a collection of friends, since he'd made so many.

Tom, the bartender, handed him his second Firewhiskey. "Who's the poor girl this time?" his friend, one of the few ones who hadn't tried to go on a date with him or felt his cock, asked. That was true too. Harry found himself laughing. "Astoria Greengrass, the one who Splinched herself last week right after declaring her undying love for me in front of the Ministry building."

"Oh," the other man grinned, "she's a really pretty one. What happened?"

"What do you think?"

Tom didn't answer but, instead, went back to washing the dirty glasses in the sink behind him, leaving Harry to wallow in his familiar misery.

The-Man-Who-Lived burped a silent burp once and twirled his glass in his hand, watching with boredom as the drink stayed in one place. Laws of physics, was it? He squinted, trying to remember any of the scientific laws and theories he'd learned from his Muggle school. What was that scientist's name? Newton? And the one who dropped that thing off of a tower was Galileo, wasn't it? Or maybe it was vice-versa.

Someone settled down in the chair to his right, Harry heard the man ordering a Butterbeer.

This was one of the few places where the paparazzi couldn't be in. Tom had a good ward preventing any cameras. The last two that had tried to get inside broke their three hundred Galleon FarSighters. Both threw fits, demanding payments until Tom called up Aurors, which wasn't a hard thing to do with one of his regulars being the Head of the Auror Department. People always looked down at poorly-ran bars but this was a sanctuary for Harry.

"Two sickles please," was the payment. The jingling of coins being fished out of a pocket rang in his ears. The man must have paid with a Galleon because the next thing Harry heard was, "Keep the change."

The voice was husky and cold, reminding Harry very much of a frosty winter day. There was no other sound from his right after Tom set the drink on the counter. The man didn't even make any noise as he drank. It was as if nobody was there.

"I don't like Firewhiskey," he said for a conversation starter. "But I ordered one anyway because it burns my throat and reminds me of that Muggle drink I was never allowed to have when I was little."

There was still no sound.

"Why did you order Butterbeer?" he asked after a moment and took a huge gulp. No answer.

Well, that was certainly rude. Harry ground his teeth and glared out the corner of his eyes, not really seeing the person. He wasn't used to be ignored like that. When he talked to someone, they'd talk back. Sometimes, they'd say more than he really wanted them to but they always talked back. It was a polite thing to do - answering someone when they tried to talk to you.

The man slammed his glass down this time, a tad too loud for Harry's liking.

"What's your bloody problem," he growled, sitting up to face that bastard, and never got to utter the first word of his next sentence.

Draco Malfoy's face was void of all emotion. His hands were off the glass of Butterbeer and curled up into fists on the table. Chagrin flooded over Harry's anger. His face turned pink, embarrassed. Merlin, he quickly glanced back at his own drink. What was he thinking? Normally, he'd leave people alone in the bar.

To correctly describe Malfoy's expression at the moment- a bit surprise did show through. If Harry wasn't who he was, he was sure that the blond man would've sneered for mockery at least.

"I ordered Butterbeer because I felt like it." The retort came a few minutes later. "Not that it's any of your business, Potter, seeing as you're one private little person yourself." A definite snarl in his voice, he noted. "Oh, my mistake; Potter's business includes other people's, how could I forget? How _dare_ I forget?"

"Look Malfoy. I apologize. I just had a terrible day-"

Malfoy snorted. "Please! Do spare me the insightful details and go about your way. I can guess exactly what happened." _And so can every other person in this room._

Harry could hear those silent words that followed it with ease. It was understandable, but it still made him a bit angry. No, he couldn't blow here. He could just imagine the _Daily Prophet_'s headline tomorrow. _Calm down, we're not in Hogwarts._ "I guess no normal civilized conversations would ever occur between us two, huh, Malfoy?"

"I've got nothing to say to you outside of Ministry businesses," he replied in the same cold voice. "You have no control over me in here, Potter."

He jerked, and knocked over his glass of Firewhiskey in the process.

"Harry-" Tom began, but the Man-Who-Lived-Twice cut him off.

"I'll pay for this, Tom. You don't have to worry about the cost." As he bent down to recover the shards of the glass, Malfoy's feet swooshed silently by him, and was gone. He stared, feeling a bit weird - stunted, even. What happened? Why did he jerk? This wasn't the first time that Malfoy talked back.

One difference; it was ruder, but he expected this kind of disrespect from someone like Malfoy.

"Harry, are you all right? You've been down there for two minutes without moving," Tom called from behind the counter.

He stood up, holding the big pieces of the glass he'd manage to retrieve. The bartender flashed him a strange look. "...There is something wrong with your eyes."

"My eyes?" he muttered.

Indeed, he felt something wrong too. Within him, the Veela blood stirred with something close to anger. Not anger per se, but close.

"It's gone now but there was a blare in them."

"Blare?" He shook his head. "I think I might be drunk. I better go home," he whispered. "Sorry about the glass, Tom."

The man nodded and dismissed the galleon Harry tried to give him. Wasting no time, Harry apparated back home.

* * *

It was a miracle that he did not Splinch himself, but he could give credit to his training for that.

He held _Guide on Veelas_ atop his lap, opening it to the _Body Language of a Veela_ chapter. There was a three page essay on the changing of a Veela's eyes. A full Veela's eyes may shift color-shades when in extreme panic, her eyes may change sizes when transforming into their Harpy-like form, and they may hold a glow of light in them when she felt "excited". It was in quotation. Harry traced the word with his hand, puzzled.

Excited?

He frowned and closed his eyes. He had been excited for the Chudley Cannons' participation in the International Quidditch Finale. He felt excited when Hermione announced that she intended him to be her unborn baby's Godfather. His last birthday where Ron and he had planned an all-man getaway to the Muggle Strip club was certainly exciting enough, even though it turned out to be a pretty bad night.

But for Malfoy? To feel excited for the stoic blond?

How weird.


	5. The Most Careless

"Watch it, old crone!"

The force of the shove sent her stumbling into a nearby wall. She gasped, placing a wrinkled hand on the concrete and bowed her head low as so to not let the hood uncover her. Her other hand held onto the stick she'd picked to use as a clutch; walking was still a problem, as it would be if one had laid in earth, playing dead for over five years.

Bellatrix breathed carefully. Her lungs hurt to function too. In fact, her body was weak altogether. She bent low, looking almost humble at the moment. The young wizard above her sneered with mockery.

"What business have you got here?" he taunted. "Go back home, hag."

How disrespectful.

_Who is this?_

Her lord spoke. A sigh escaped her lips at the wonderful sound in her head. Her lord rarely spoke.

_A young one, my lord. He sounds no older than that of Potter when we last saw him._

_Is he able? Will he do?_

"Now move! I've got to get going and you're blocking my way!" Yes, indeed she was. The road was narrow, an one-way path- not something unusual for a place like Knockturn Alley, which was not an unusual place for Dark wizards to roam either, especially for any traitorous followers of her lord. "Well?" The tone was haughty. This young man sounded too young to have been one of them. Either way, if he would do...

Bellatrix took her hand off the concrete and unveiled herself. His expression changed from irritation to confusion with a slight fear edging to it.

He looked not a day over twenty. With dark-brown eyes and dirty-blond hair, the lad was an ill-dressed, a low-life. In his hand carried a round bundle, and she was willing to bet with every atom of life she still possessed that the bundle contained a hollow Dragon eggshell. So obvious, so careless.

_He will do._

Her lord gave a hiss of approval.

"I'm going to give you one last warning. Move out of my way, I will not hesitate to hex-" She snatched his wand from his hand before he could continue. "Hey what-"

"_Imperio!_"

* * *

Draco Malfoy and Vita Larousse sat in front of him, one looked furious, the other gave him a stone-cold gaze. Harry averted away from Malfoy, feeling rather unease as he recalled the incident in the bar. His stomach started to stir.

"I know what you're both thinking," he began.

"I thought we agreed to my partnership with Deanna Jones," Vita huffed. Harry gave her a look and she backed down.

"Mrs. Jones brother is also an Auror here. Siblings working together has, in the past, done wonders. We've reassigned her," he explained. "This will only be for one mission, and a simple one at that. Call it a test."

"I thought so," Malfoy finally said through ground teeth.

There was silence following after that statement. Harry took a deep, almost quivering breath. "I need you to investigate this little shop down Knockturn Alley. There has been some suspicious activities going on, most likely involving illegal buying and selling of Erumpent horn powder, which they shouldn't have had in the first place without a license."

"You are going to send _him_ along with me on something like this?" she snarled. "We can trust _him_ to handle criminals?!"

Malfoy's hands clenched into fists again, then relaxed, his jaw seemed to have frozen. The man remained composed other than that. His widened, enraged eyes were unmistakable, however.

"Larousse," Harry barked. "There will be no such talk in my office."

She opened to mouth to protest, face flushed and eyes shone with equal anger. Her hatred towards the Malfoy had no doubt deepened when she learned of his loyalty during the war. Vita had a Muggleborned Wizard father and a Muggle mother who was a Wiccan- what most Muggles mistook as a performer of witchcraft for, as Hermione told him. Both were killed during the war when the girl was only in Fifth year, accused of the "crime", theft of magic.

"I apologize Head Potter," she said, but her tone told him that in no way was she meaning what she said. "I just thought the irony of a mass murderer going after petite smugglers-"

"I am not a murderer," Malfoy snapped.

Vita's lips pursed. "A victim would think differ."

"Enough."

There it was again, the tension, the silence. Both glared at the empty air beside them until, finally, the female Auror got up, took her file and left the room. Harry released out a sigh.

"You should know better than retorting back at her, Malfoy," he scolded. "She doesn't know anything about you except of what you were before-"

"What a wondrous description! I think you've just classified every single person in the Ministry, Potter," Malfoy said sarcastically.

Harry bit his lips to retain back a vexatious scream, wanting to claw at his own head. Wouldn't he listen?! "Why did you take up this job in the first place, Malfoy, if you hate people so much?!" he all but yelled. "Your name may not have the power anymore, but you have money and a place to live. If you hate working with others, why did you choose this? There are way better things you could be doing instead of working here wasting my time with that attitude of yours!"

He didn't even move. "I don't believe that its any of your business."

"This is exactly what I'm talking about!"

"I'll work with her, so stop your raging, Potter. It doesn't compliment your Adonis-image very well," he taunted. "Merlin forbids if a picture of you right now ever got into the hand of the press..."

Humiliation came back like a bitch, painting his face red.

"I will tolerate, but I work alone," Malfoy said and, too, walked out of the office.

The room now felt hollow, light. The stirring in his stomach grew more intense, and he wondered if the pancake he'd ate this morning had anything to do with it. But it didn't hurt, just quenched his abdomen muscles and-

Harry propped his head back and hissed. The slow howl began.

So it was that.

_What has been going on lately with it?_

It grew louder and he yelped at the pain. What was going on?! Normally, the pain wasn't like this; they were sharp and stung like a bee would after a long, numbing cry. This pain stayed longer, hurt more. And then, Harry's mind burned, no longer able to think as the pain beat through his body rhythmically. It was getting hot in the room. It no longer sounded haunting, just mad, pure madness and despair of a child who did not get what he wanted. Hotter, the howl was higher. _Hurt._

The spasm of of heat suddenly passed through and disappeared. The Veela blood calmed, leaving him sweating and shaking.

Fleur had experienced this? Really? He closed his eyes and breathed deep, and noticed.

"Fuck," he cursed, then barely suppressed a giggle.

An erection, the sight of it sent another shiver through his body.

Here? Would anyone see? Probably not, this was a private office. No one would, no one would...

Harry unbuckled his pants and slipped them down to his knees, feeling silly. How did this happen? Could it be his lack of sexual activities in the past month? Maybe, maybe not. He moaned as he stroke himself and tried to picture a body: curvy, soft breast, long, wavy hair on the pillow as he- No. He opened his eyes. That wasn't what he was looking for. Harry closed his eyes again to imagine.

A slender body replaced the previous one. He kept the hair, and imagined- For some reason, he felt like vomiting.

"...the fuck," he muttered and took his hands away.

Ginny? The image left a bad taste in his mouth.

Somebody, somebody!

He pictured one woman after another as he continued to touch himself, but no.

His erection was going away.

"Oh," he decided to moan to himself instead.

Astoria?

_No, no!_

But she was beautiful.

Yes she was, with those innocent pink lips. _Imagine them, get her around you. Imagine her. Her- Not good enough, not good at all._

He lost the erection, no longer interested. It dawned.

_Was no one beautiful enough?_

* * *

Though he'd managed to put on a stoic mask, his inside was bursting, panicking, and before Vita Larousse had left, ready to kill. As he stepped outside and put on his hat, wearing it low so the sun wouldn't hit his eyes, the pounding of his heart calmed and his rushing blood settled. Anger faded.

It had taken years for him to master that. He smirked a grim smirk, remembering the way he'd screamed and cried whenever someone spat at him. Post-war time scared him, people scared him, the government officials who'd raid his house with their shiny badges always made his mother cry and left him frozen with fear. So he kept distance, for a while.

She wasn't the first one to aim such insult at him, but it hurt more when he had to hear it in front of someone else. Especially if that someone was his old school rival.

Potter was one of the few people who didn't understand the meaning of keeping one's nose out of other people's business. His thoughts wandered back at the way Potter's eyebrow had rose when he first stepped into his office, there to get his first mission. He thought of the times where Potter would just stop, look at him, shake his head, and ask about his life. _"If it gets in the way of your work, then its my business,"_ he claimed. He thought of the way the Golden Git would look at him when he thought Draco wasn't looking back. More than what angered Draco wasn't the hatred shown in his eyes- there was none, to tell the truth. No hate, no disgust.

There was pity. There was disbelief, some wonderment, even.

And sometimes, concern.

But most of all, pity.

He felt sorry for Draco, he felt sorry for a Malfoy!

_Stop looking at me like that Potter! I'm not poor, I'm not a Weasley,_ he had always wanted to say. _And I'm certainly not you, the perfect world savior who can't seems to find the woman to satisfy his needs. Go pity yourself, leave me alone!_

He hated him so fucking much.

"_Why did you take up this job in the first place, Malfoy, if you hate people so much?!"_

_Good question, Potter, good question. Too bad you'll never get an answer._

His handsome manor was a sight to behold after what happened that day, and he quickly took out his wand and thinned the front ward. His mother stood on the porch wearing her favorite white dress, in her hand was a dandelion.

He never got why his mother like these annoying yellow things so much; they were just like weeds and gnomes, a nuisance.

Draco ran up the lane and across the front lawn. Narcissa paced towards him.

"What did he want?" she whispered.

"I was assigned a partner," he said back. Her eyes, lowered thoughtfully as she put her finger to her lips, stroking the bottom one as she turned away from him, her face wrinkled, thinking.

"Will that interfere?"

He hesitated.

"No."


	6. The Most Silver

Bellatrix Lestrange gazed upward in awe, her hands clutched at her chest at the sight. She smiled a crooked, maniacal smile and bow her head low again.

"You've done it, my lord," she whispered, as she'd gazed, with complete awe. "I knew it, I always knew that you'll never fail the Dark. O' rise did you once again from the ashes."

Voldemort was paying no heed to her as he examined his new body. The young, barely twenty years old wizard whose body he had taken was at the most satisfiable, the least, disgusting. As soon as he'd came into the mind, he knew of the boy's origin: a filthy Halfblood rebellious against magic when young, and only managed to land low life jobs such as kidnapping Dragon eggs and performing minor thievery under other more influenced thieves command. The boy lived by what he made each day. And more to that that revolted Voldemort to no end, this boy was a Gryffindor in Hogwarts time.

Still, he was a beggar now, and beggars could never be choosers. The Dark Lord's lips curled into a sneer.

Once the entire wizardry community of Britain was his anew, once all those Muggles were dead and gone, once he ruled what was rightfully his again...

But for now, he would stay calm and take whatever he could get his hands on.

This body functioned quite well. Looking at his left forearm, Voldemort smirked with pleasure. As long as his mark was on this body, it would do, it would do.

"Bellatrix," he murmured. The voice of the man sounded strange to him; it wasn't his own, it was too... ordinary, too soft, even.

His loyal servant immediately reacted at his will. "Yes, my lord," she said. "Yes, the potion's ready. It's done, I'm waiting at your words, my lord."

"Good." He held out his mark. "We shall begin the test."

The woman jumped with the excitement of a chipmunk and went to fetch the potion with speed. She arrived back half a second later, one hand with the vial, the other with the wand of the boy. He took the vial from her wrinkled, shaking hands and felt the smooth glass. It was the correct shade of green, the right density. Perfect.

He took the cork of the vial off and poured the liquid onto his inner left forearm. The potion bubbled and hissed as it came in contact with his skin.

They waited.

The smoke started to wave off into the air.

For a minute, he glared at the green smoke, irritation started to build up within him. Then, it moved, the gas changing and shaping itself into letters.

The first name. "Augustus Rookwood," Bellatrix breathed. One.

His eyes widened slightly, a little dissatisfaction shot through his mind. One, so far, after minutes, only one responded. His Mark continued to burn. It meant that the call wasn't over yet. Be patient, be patient. Soon.

"Yaxley."

His mind settled at the name, pleased at the slight. Good, he needed someone like Yaxley.

"Thorfinn Rowle," came the third name.

They were beginning to see. Voldemort hissed, his face melted into a sneer.

More began to return his call: Macnair, Jugson, Mulciber, Rosier...

Bellatrix's breath was heavy, chuckling as each name appeared. "So many are still loyal to you, my lord. You are still great." And she was correct. The assembling group of what was left of his inner circle would be enough for the time being, no where near the army he originally had before the war, but enough. Most of them were imprisoned, he knew. Some of them would still doubt his return, of course. But he'll rise again. Dumbledore wasn't there to stop him. Potter by himself would be too weak to stop him. The Mudblood-lovers had underestimated his ability, giving him an advantage. He would put on a show for all of them to see; nobody messed with him would live to tell a tale of it.

The green smoke started to fade.

"I'm very pleased by the result," he said, watching as the gas dissipated into the night air.

And it burned again.

"My lord," his servant whispered as the remaining droplets of the potion hissed and spattered. The two of them watch attentively. Yes, one more of them. He wonder which.

The final name arose from the faint smoke.

He laughed.

* * *

"Oh..."

Harry Potter had no idea where he was. He opened his eyes, wondering where the noise had came from, wondering whose bed was he in. He didn't recognize anything. It was hot, he was sweaty and...

"Ooooh..." The sound escaped from his throat before he could stop himself. It was him before, Harry realized, he made that sound. There was heat surrounding him, just like that day in the office. He looked down, trying to see through the dark, to find out just what was going on, and found his legs spread. Cold air lapped his body; he was naked too.

Harry's whole face flushed as another surge of pleasure washed through his body, and his breath hitched.

_Creak_, came the sound of a door being opened.

Someone was here!

"Do you like that?" the person whispered from the doorway, speaking in a low, husky voice. Harry's head snapped up, meeting a pair of mercuric eyes shining in the dark, looming closer. "Do you like that?"

Who was this? The person put a warm hand on Harry's torso, stroking his belly. He squirmed uncomfortably on the bed, shivering from the teasing touch as it moved lower and lower until it found his cock. Harry gasped as it grabbed a hold of him, beginning to move up and down, squeezing the hardened member. "Oh yes," he moaned wantonly to the stranger. "Who are you?" The eyes were familiar, too familiar. The voice, he was sure that he'd heard it somewhere before. But where? From whom? Who was this?

His mysterious silver-eyed lover bent down instead of answering his question. A rush of cold air breathed, brushing against his crotch. Then a hot, wet mouth swallowed him whole.

Harry's back arched off the bed as he screamed with ecstasy. His stomach tightened itself into a knot as the mouth sucked him, moans sent vibration that shook his body with intense pleasure. Two hands held his hips down, the fingernails digging into his skin as the head bobbed up and down, tongue lapping the tip every time it reached top. He could only but cry, urging, pleading the person to not stop. It'd never felt this good.

"Who are you?" he asked as he instinctively tried to thrust into the mouth.

The pair of silver orbs met his own eyes, lustful and mischievous and moaned teasingly. Harry's mouth went dry at the feeling as the person continued to work.

"Tell me." It came out more like a whimper.

One soft hand soothed his left cheek, moving in a caressing motion. So close. He moaned something inaudible, not even sure what he was saying himself. Breathing pattern became shorter and louder. He was almost there, almost there, almost there- Then, the mouth left him.

"No..." Harry sobbed, thrusting himself at the empty air, finding the mouth not there anymore.

"Do you want it?" came the second question.

He stared, still out of breath. "Want what?"

"Do you want it?" the person repeated, the other hand gently rubbing on the tip of Harry's cock.

_Don't leave._ "Yes," he answered, not sure what was in stored for him. He'd take anything right now.

The person said nothing, but took hold of Harry's leaking cock and coated it with the pre-cum. Harry wet his lips and moaned. "What are you going to do?" he asked, slightly mesmerized by the moving hand that was leaving butterfly strokes, fondling him. The pre-cum covered hand then roamed lower.

"What are you going to do?" It grazed against his hole.

Harry jerked, eye widened.

The hand returned as his tensed muscles began to relax, fingers tracing his quivering entrance as he watched, a bit shocked. Fear and anticipation dried his mouth as a finger rubbed and pressed against the hole. The other hand removed itself from his hip, and parted his cheeks. The finger slipped in, burying itself as deep as it could within and _curved_. That was all it took for him.

Harry woke up just as he climaxed. Blinding white greeted his eyes as the intense orgasm overtook his body. He cried out, tilting his head back.

Seconds later, he opened his eyes and observed his surrounding. He was back in his bedroom.

It was a dream, a_ wet_ dream.

"Fuck."

Who was that person? He'd never met a woman with such eyes, but they were so familiar, he knew them. He'd looked into them before. Who? Who?

Perhaps it was his mate, that could be why he dreamt of such person.

Harry breath hitched as he thought about the beautiful mercuric-orbs. The mouth was so good, so skilled. The hands too. Harry could still feel them touching him, holding him down. But he was being fingered! No woman had done that to him, _ever_. The Man-Who-Lived-Twice bit his lips, wetting them in the process. Maybe it was a new kink of his, or his mate liked it. He'd have to get use to it if that was the case, though that shouldn't be a hard thing to accept. The finger felt good, it still felt good even after the dream. Maybe-

Oh no. He tossed back his head and hissed a curse. This was ridiculous, he looked down again at the disappearance of his right hand, and chuckled.

_It's normal,_ he thought, _it's perfectly normal thing to do, many men like it. I bet a lot of male Veelas like me like it too. It's what she would want me to like._

He was still aroused.

Trying something new shouldn't be a bad thing.

Harry moaned as he slide his own finger out of himself, and then thrust it back in with pressure and curved it just like the dream. He pumped it in and out. Of course this was normal, and told himself and carefully slide another one in, hissing as his ring of muscles clenched around the two digits.

He pretended it was the silver-eyed stranger.

* * *

By that afternoon, the vivid details of the dream had faded from his mind. He could still recall the shade of the eyes, but forgot the shape, forgot how they looked, cloudy and dark with lust. He forgot what the voice sounded like.

Because a lover from a wet dream would be the least of his concern right now.

A mass of Death Eaters had broken out of Azkaban.

"Impossible!" he'd shouted. "What were the Dementors doing? Weren't the wards in place? Weren't the external guards we've set around the prison doing their duties? How could a total of so many criminals going missing escape their notices!?"

"Our sensors showed no suspicious movements inside the wards, not preparation of any sort of a rebellion group," the head of the Azkaban guards reasoned. "They-" he held his breath. "They Apparated." Except it was impossible to Apparate within Azkaban ground, the wards prevented anyone from doing so. "We're sure that the barriers were in place, but there must have been an opening somewhere."

"That is not going to excuse anything!" he snapped.

Harry had stormed out of their meeting before the man could retort, pissed.

What was this? What the _fuck_ was this?! Voldemort was dead, he'd been _long_ dead, more than five years! There was no reason for the Death Eaters to revolt now, it wasn't like the civilians would accept them back again. Unless... unless... No, the Dark Lord reviving again would be absurd. There were no more Horcrux left.

"I only wish that the press haven't caught the whiff of this," Hermione said that evening in the living room of twelve Grimmauld Place. "People are going to be panicking all over. Damn those nosy imbeciles for leaking this, do they _want_ people to go berserk?!" Her eyes narrowed with hatred at the thought of _Daily Prophet_'s reporters. She seethed at the memory of Rita Skeeter, who had gotten her lousy, no-good journalist job back due to Harry's article. She held back a snarl, recalling how the annoying lot had tried to _raid_ her wedding with their flashing cameras, air floating with Quick-Quote Quills, ruining the atmosphere. Her anger worsened when she thought of them at her windows after she'd announced her pregnancy.

"_Get laid!"_ was what she'd told them, which caused another speck of unwanted drama.

Hermione sighed. She had been making stupid decisions lately with her unborn baby Libby on her mind. Why, just last week, she'd failed to deliver a proper speech she had spent days preparing, blowing the chance of Wizard-Centaur alliance reformation. Now the Death Eaters decided to pick this moment.

"I have to plan this whole thing out," Harry said, deep in grave thoughts. "I'm afraid that I don't have enough people in my department to handle this with so many minor trouble going around. The Hit Wizards are willing to give some help to us, but they aren't trained for long-term missions and many of their regulations and contracts say that they're not obligated to fight anywhere else besides in England, not the entire UK territory. Not to mention the fact that I don't have control over their doings either. Unless the group of Death Eaters reside near here and the team's head is willing to listen to me, I don't see them as much of a help."

"And then there is that dragon up Ben Nevis that took away thirteen of us..."

"Malfoy," Ron spoke as his first word all evening.

Both of the other two's heads snapped up.

Hermione looked grim.

Harry looked slightly disturbed. _Malfoy_, his stomach did a flop as the face of the blond flashed through his mind. He shook his head, and frowned. _His eyes... _A slight stir started in his groin and he shifted in his seat. _That's stupid, the person was surely a woman. And besides, he hates you. He would never do that._

_Why am I connecting him with my dream anyway? He's not a woman._

He averted his attention back to Ron.

"Think about it, he's the obvious traitor here," the redhead said. "He knew that everybody hates him, and the way he's been acting is suspicious-"

"I think it's a perfectly normal reaction, considering the discrimination he's facing everyday. Not that I'm pleased with his attitude but it's understandable why-"

"Harry, why are you defending him? He's a traitor, it's obvious! Just because he's not doing anything conspicuous doesn't mean he's not doing anything undercover. A person like him shouldn't even _be_ a ministry official, much less than a high up position such as an Auror. We all know he'd bribed his way in."

Harry sniffed and drew back. "He doesn't act like a traitor."

"But that doesn't mean he isn't one."

"Everybody deserve a second chance, Ron," Hermione said. "He's a coward, we all know that, he couldn't even kill Dumbledore and he was scared to death at the time of Voldemort and the war. I think going back to the Dark Lord would be the last thing he wants to do."

"As far as I see, he hasn't been causing significant troubles..."

Ron sat up, shocked. "What- you- Hermione, you're _defending _him too?!"

"Just because he's a git doesn't mean he's evil."

"He doesn't have to be to betray the Ministry's secrets! He could have easily given away ward information to-"

"He swore under an oath, Ron, an _Unbreakable Vow_. If he did, he'd have died," Harry said.

The male Weasley was about to open his mouth to protest again, then shut it, eyebrows furrowed. "He's a git," he merely muttered.

The Potter sighed. "Draco Malfoy isn't our main worry now, the Death Eaters are."

* * *

When he was a child, his mother was the only person in the world who truly loved and cared for him. First year, he'd wrote to both Lucius and her about his success of sorting into Slytherin, she was the one who responded with a letter, a letter of praise and love and warmth, along with a bag of sweets. She's the one who's urged him on everyday with her letters when he felt homesick.

When he took home his first year's report card, she was the one who'd organized a celebration of their own in the backyard. When he wanted to be in the Quidditch team during second year, she was the one who'd pestered his father for him, finally achieving the goal with the purchase of seven Nimbus 2001s. Yes, in a way, he did buy his way into the team. Weasley- Granger at the time- had been right.

Growing up, all birthday parties were Narcissa's deed, all presents were. She gave everything, all her time to him, meeting his childish demands.

Lucius never cared. He wanted good grades from Draco, he wanted his son's loyalty to the dark, He wanted to ensure that Draco would marry Pansy Parkinson when growing up. That was all.

He remained obedient to his father, and no more.

When the war was over, Lucius did not wait for a trial, knowing that he wouldn't clear this time no matter what.

He fled.

Draco didn't care.

Then, "I miss him," his mother started to say.


	7. The Most Absurd

One would think that nothing bad could happen on such days like this one. Above the civilians of Britain, the sun's golden light showered down on them as cool breezes skimmed through the air ever so often, rustling grasses and leaves on trees. There wasn't a daring grey cloud in the sky, not a threat of a storm. In a luncheonette in Diagon Alley, Harry Potter sat at table number six across from a jet black-haired female, who raised her glass of refreshment and clinked with his glass as people around the two stared.

Nineteen year old Emma Dobbs certainly had a charming enough smile to please Harry. Her reaction towards him asking her out for lunch was composed, unlike many other girls he'd encountered, but that was probably of her family's influence. His eyes flickered towards her calm, tanned face, the face of a witch of a Pureblood family leaning towards Light- passive and warm.

But most of all, his stare lingered when it caught her eyes.

Their silver was the closest shade he'd gotten to.

"How are things going with the break out?" she spoke in a quiet voice, not resembling at all like the one in his dream. Of course, he'd forgotten what it sounded like, but he could still hear the huskiness of it echoing in his head, if he'd think about it hard enough. The reminder cause a delightful stir within him, and in the distance, he could hear the Veela blood purring with happiness.

Harry looked around twice before answering. A couple of people darted their gazes away when they met his stares, trying to hide their curiosity.

"It's going very well," he lied. None of her family was part of the Ministry, that much he knew a little assurance could never hurt anyone. The corner of her mouth relaxed into a grin.

The truth was, it wasn't going anywhere at all. There had been zero evidence found on Azkaban ground that could lead the Investigation team to the Death Eaters whereabout. The leader of the Auror squad there was right; they must have Apparated because only Apparation could have left little to no trace, and in this case, there _were_ no trace.

Which left everybody even more worried.

_And me pondering why am I here on a date with a witch simply because she had the correct shade of silver for eye color when there are bigger things at hand._ Then he stopped and corrected himself, _No, the _closest_ shade, not the exact._

"I trust that they'll all be captured once again?" Emma asked, daintily picking at her chicken salad. The food part of every date weirded him out to no end; they'd always, _always_ get some sort of salad. "My mother was in quite a frantic mood when she read the paper. I really hope you're doing something about this."

He gave her another assuring smile. "You're safe with me, my lady. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if a beauty such as you got harmed in any ways."

Emma blushed, and shrank back, lowering her eyelids in a modest manner. That part puzzled him too. They would always do that when he complimented or flirted with them for the first time. Harry didn't get it; did they think this gesture was suppose to be cute or adorable, or make them look more attractive in any ways? It wasn't taking effects on him; he'd found it annoying by now. Nonetheless, Harry pasted his infamous loop-sided grin on his face. She could be the one. Sure, she was a bore, but she could be the type who was doubtful the first time around, but who'd know? Women were usually nervous and very close about their personalities until they began to trust somebody.

And her eyes...

Gazing into them once more, a tingle of disappointment ran through him. They weren't the right shade no matter how close they might be. But she was all he'd got left, all he had found.

_This was a stupid reason to date her in the first place, for her eyes,_ he scolded himself.

The silence between them dragged on. Harry looked up to admire the blue sky. He saw owls flying back and forth, their talons grasping their deliveries, and casted an non-verbal _Tempus_ wandlessly when Emma turned her head away. It was nearly one O' clock, his lunch break was ending.

What a waste of time.

_There, I admitted it. I think it's a waste of time. What's wrong with me? Dating had always been fun before no matter how stupid or boring the girl is-_

"What's that?!" Emma's harsh voice suddenly pierce through his thoughts like a knife. He snapped back to reality, heart jumped a few beats as he followed her eyes' general direction. "It's a red spark. "

_Fireworks? _"In the middle of the day?"

No, it wasn't firework. He'd recognize this spark.

Someone screamed in the distance as the sound of an explosion shook the ground like a minor earthquake. The tea in his teacup rattled and shook with the vibration, and seconds later, spilled over the table. The customers around him muttered loudly amongst themselves, no longer interested in their food.

Another scream.

"Harry?" Emma asked nervously, grasping his arm for balance.

"I've got to go," he whispered and ran out of the door.

Apparition would be quicker, he decided after running for few seconds. He only needed to calm down and concentrate. The explosion came from the Ministry building, and there was no doubt in his mind that the attack was plotted for him. He slowed down, stopped, closed his eyes and felt the familiar whirling in his stomach began.

A second later, a hex flew by his face, missing by inches. He gasped and dodged another one coming his way, fumbling his robe for his wand.

"_Incendio,_" Harry aimed a spell at the first masked person he spot, not even giving himself time to watch the Death Eater going up in flame and whirled around, throwing another hex.

All around him, shopkeepers were closing their doors frantically, some fending off attackers while doing so. People ran from the street, hands clutching their little children with fright as one by one, they Apparated or flew away on brooms or got away from there by means of other transportation methods. The Death Eaters robbed what they could, he could see, not bothered with killing unless they needed to.

"Bailey!" he screamed as he saw the face of the nearest Auror, dueling two Death Eaters at the same time.

Harry watched as one young witch fell down crying when a masked Death Eater snatched her wand away from her and kicked her out of the way.

"_Conjunctivitis!_" The wand thief roared in pain, hands flew up to his eyes. "Bailey!" Harry yelled again. _Reducto,_ he casted another spell in his mind and pointed his left hand at an approaching enemy. "Get the Hit Wizards, I'll fend them off!"

With that, Bailey quickly Apparated out from the battle. The two fight Death Eaters paused at the sudden disappearance of the Auror and narrowed their eyes behind their masks, turning towards Harry.

"_Stupefy,"_ he whispered, and the spell knocked them both in the chest.

In front of the Ministry building, in their very faces. Harry hissed under his breath as he took down three more of them. What a brave lot had they became to attack the Ministry so openly! He nearly laughed at the thought of the shivering, cowardly Death Eaters who had begged for forgiveness during the trial now becoming... Gryffindor-like.

No, nothing like Gryffindors. They were not here to fight for the goods or for bravery, they were here for a show.

This was a mere warning.

_But one would think that Voldemort wouldn't risk all of what he has got on an opening ambush. Unless he's got more men hiding. This army looks like the entire group escapees from Azkaban and more. The more counting the ones not caught yet. _The thought disturbed him. More?

"_Exstingue! Stupefy! Reducto!"_

"Potter!"

_Malfoy? _"_Expelliarmus!_ What is it?"

The blond fired off a chain of Stupefy charms before replying. "There's an interesting little something something going on inside the Department of Mysteries. I've brought back two teams of Hit Wizards with me," he said as calm as if they were talking across a dinner table instead of fighting a raid of Death Eaters outside.

Harry hesitated, then nodded and ran after Malfoy.

* * *

The last time he'd been into the Department of Mysteries was in his fifth year, where Sirius had died in the Death Chamber from Bellatrix's curse. The polished, water-like floor made his legs quiver and shake as he stepped on it. Metallic black doors were closed on either side of him, he observed. A large lump settled in his throat as he scanned each and every one of them, wondering just which room was the one his Godfather had met his doom in.

"It unusually calm here," he uttered, then decided that the statement wasn't quite right. It shouldn't be unusual for a Department such as one of Mysteries to be quiet. But this dense tension in the air made the atmosphere seemed even more abnormal than he expected. And the wards were down.

Behind him, he could see out the corner of his eyes that Malfoy's wand was already lit.

"Where's the chaos?" he asked, hand tightening around his own wand as a flash of suspicion ran through his head. Could this be a trap? Was Malfoy really a traitor like Ron had made out. He wouldn't be surprised. "Or better yet, where are the Unspeakables and who disabled the wards?"

Malfoy did not answer him, only gently pushed him aside and stepped forwards, caution glimmered in his eyes. Harry swallowed a gasp as the _Lumos_-ed wand passed just underneath his eyes. His palm squeezed around his wand handle even more as a low coo with contentment began in the back of his mind. His stomach started to flutter with thousand butterflies. A strange look from Malfoy brought a light blush out on his cheek, and he thanked Merlin in his mind that the Entrance Chamber was badly lit.

Once again, those eyes...

_No, that's ridiculous. Why am I thinking of such thing at a time like this? Why am I thinking like this at all? I'm not attractive to men, I'm straight. Perhaps the dream was about one of Malfoy's cousins with the same eye color- He must have some cousins. He couldn't be the only one with those eyes. I need to stop this foolishness._

_This isn't the time._

"What are we here for, Malfoy?" he said again, this time in an smaller, quieter voice with an impatient edge. "As far as I could see, there isn't a single Death Eater in sight-"

But before he could finish, a door burst open. A body was being thrown out by something way more powerful than the Blasting curse. It hit the door opposite of it. The woman- Harry recognized the cloak of an Unspeakable on her- screamed as a loud crunching sound occurred when her skull came in contact with the door.

And everything stopped.

The open door remained open. Harry sprung into motion.

"_Displode_!" He fired the curse directly into the room.

The room. Harry looked within it, wand out in front of him.

This was the Death Chamber.

To his horror, bodies wearing the Unspeakable cloaks and masked faces with black robes laid all over the floor. Three Death Eaters, still alive, stood in the middle of the done massacre. In one's hand was a familiar-looking red stone.

"Hello, Potter."

Harry froze at his name.

The one who spoke unveiled himself, and Harry found himself looking into a pair of brown eyes eyes. With the dirty blond hair that stood up straight, the man looked almost like Seamus at certain angles. But the shagginess and the unshaved face set them well apart as well as the smug, delirious look on his face. He'd never met this person, but he knew who it was by the insanity and the coldness that swirled in the pupils. He could tell by the hiss that trailed the spoken words.

"I thought you're dead," was all he could get out.

The other two burst into mocking laughter.

"Really? I beg differ," Voldemort taunted. "You're not as clever as you thought, Potter. In the end, I still outsmart you and the dead Muggle-lover."

"I killed you."

"So you say," the Dark Lord replied dryly.

"How..."

His enemy's lips curved into something more disgusted and hateful than the sneer before. "You weren't careful enough were you? No, you've won a battle, but what makes you think that you've won a whole war? Never mind that, let's celebrate instead of thinking about other possibilities and ways he can come back. For example, let's not check if Bellatrix Lestrange's heart had really stopped or not. Because, of course, a shallow cut above the heart can kill her. Let's not think.."

_Another Horcrux, there was an eight Horcrux inside the Lestrange woman!_ His eyes widened with fear.

"_Expelliarmus!"_ Harry shouted.

"That's not going to work this time, Potter."

The flat statement felt like a blow in the face to him. What could he do? Was there a ninth Horcrux, ready if he destroyed this one? Voldemort couldn't have that many.

_What is that stone in his hand is the more important question here._

"_Flammo Totalus,_" Malfoy's voice suddenly rang out behind him. A ball of blue flame shot past and hit the Death Eater on the left. The man didn't even have time to make a last cry before the fire consumed him entirely. Voldemort and the other Death Eater backed off quickly, screaming with rage.

"You _traitor!!_" The Dark Lord snarled, pulling out a wand. "_Crucio!_"

The Unforgivable missed Malfoy by inches as he fired off another round of curses at Voldemort, all failed to hit the target as well.

"_Avada Kedavra_," Harry hissed under his own breath. The green light burst from his palm, and the remaining Death Eater instead. Harry swore silently as he fell dead. _Damn, take care of that later._ He ran out of the room after Voldemort, careful at not stepping on the dead bodies. The Death Chamber door slammed behind him, and he found himself in the Entrance Chamber once more.

"Malfoy, get the stone," he said before unleashing another Killing curse, missing this time as well.

Voldemort smirked at him with the face of the unknown man, seeming pleased with the body; moving so fast wasn't something his last one was able to do. Of course, Harry seethed, this wasn't just a body made up of dead flesh. He took a real, living body and somehow had merged his soul and mind with it, or worse, destroying the self that once reside in the body before taking it for himself.

Voldemort continued to hold onto the stone.

"Traitors will be punished, Malfoy," he said, deriving his attention to his main focus. "Why, even your father acknowledge what I could do now that I've lived once again. You remember Lucius, don't you, or have these Mudblood-lovers brain washed you to the point of dirt low?"

"I don't care for that bastard," the blond said stoically. "Drop the stone."

The Dark Lord stopped, blinking. The look did not suit the face well.

"Drop the stone," Malfoy repeated. "I'm not afraid of someone who was once destroyed by a mere one year old, _Tom Riddle._"

Voldemort's eyes hardened. "You've picked up a few lines from Potter here, haven't you? I see, so tainted mind such as yours isn't something I'd wanted. What a pity, young Malfoy."

Malfoy stayed silent, retaining the same expressionless face, and Harry felt a tingle of admiration for his indifferent composure. He would've screamed his head off at Voldemort now. Harry got up, trying to make himself inconspicuous. Perhaps he could sneak up to the Dark Lord and knock him out-

"What would your mother think about your betrayal then?"

Every muscles in Harry's body froze as whatever color that was left on Malfoy's pale face drained.

_Kill him right now. Use the Killing curse on him and he'd be gone- Unless there are more Horcruxes..._Malfoy would not turn against him, he would not-

BOOM!

"_Everto!_"

An invisible force grasped him by the ankle and threw him across the chamber. He crashed into something, and tumbled on the floor, bone aching.

"My lord-"

"We'll leave now!"

_No!_ Harry screamed in his mind, his eyes were fuzzy and a buzzing sound overrode his hearing like a hive of bees. He groaned and thrashed against the weight on top of him. A wetness tickled down from his forehead. _The scar?_ He tried to get up again, had to stop Voldemort, but the weight wouldn't be off of him. His hands were pinned down!

An unexpected purr founded its way from between his lips as the weight pressed down on him. The waved of pleasure and heat he'd felt the other night came back. It pressed down again.

Harry moaned with delight, feeling himself hardening at the friction.

"Potter," the husky voice whispered. He arched up at the sound of the voice and opened his eyes again.

Malfoy.

His breath stopped as those mercuric eyes gazed down at him with shock and bewilderment, and looked away immediately. "Please get off me," he muttered, thunderstruck as well. Panic raced his heart as he got up. "Where did Voldemort go?" He didn't look back, fearing the disgust he might see- no, not might; he _definitely_ would see them in Malfoy's eyes.

"They ran out down the corridor, that's all I saw."

"Well, then we'll have to go after them," he said, noticing how much his voice was quivering. He ignored it and took a few deep breaths. It would go away. Malfoy would forget about it, nor would he ever sell that out to the press because he wasn't that sort of a prat anymore. This would be safe.

Just as he was about to move, a hand landed on his shoulder. "And Potter, no matter what you think I prefer or how you imagine me as, I'm not a bloody ponce."

A pain stabbed like a blade through Harry's heart. He never felt more like crying than now.

_I'm being silly again._

He scoffed instead. "Don't flatter yourself."


	8. The Most Patient

There had been only one survivor out of all the Death Eaters.

"You-Know-Who deliberately killed his own men just before we got there, and he took with him the injured ones he'd managed to recover from the ground," the leader of the reinforcement Hit Wizard team explained as guards held the growling, raging captive down. "They escaped by Apparition and left massive damages to the outer wards of the building as well as the surrounding areas; shops, sidewalks, streets and so on. There has been no report yet from the survived Unspeakables."

Harry looked down at the Death Eater, who stared right back at him in the eyes with pupils as sharp as knives and an unusual glow that Harry had only seen in two other people's eyes: Greyback and Remus.

The thought of Remus Lupin struck him in the heart for a moment, and he forced the pain down, returning back to the main focus at the moment. He would grieve later if the feeling still linger afterwards, this wasn't the time for anything but serious business.

"A werewolf with a Dark Mark... Interesting. What is your name?" he questioned calmly, kneeling, staring at the pulsing black symbol on the left arm, wondering how as he remembered Greyback and his bare left forearm. Werewolves weren't usually branded with the Mark from what he was told, as they were looked down upon even in Voldemort's ideal world.

The werewolf spat in his face instead of answering. He flinched, then recoiled back with disgust as saliva dripped down his cheek, and wiped it away with a promise to himself that there will be a good washing of face once he got home. The prisoner's madden eyes followed his movement as he got up again, the sharp teeth baring with aggression.

"The Lord is back," the werewolf merely said, triumph ringing in his voice.

"I know," he said.

"He will kill you, Harry Potter."

Harry dismissed the threat and continued to wear the stoic mask he'd always wear when interrogating criminals. "That's rather nice to hear. Now, may I have your name?"

"You don't need my name."

Those eyes glimmered, daring him to do something. Harry stared back, feeling more puzzled as the werewolf smirked a delirious smirk.

Was he not afraid at all? Most Death Eaters they'd captured before were scared to death just by the sight of Harry. All of them were afraid of what he might do to the followers of Voldemort. Some, crazily loyal to the Dark Lord, like the Lestrange woman, thrashed like maniacs, screaming. But they were always terrified of the penalties, always scared of what Harry Potter, defeater of the Dark, might do to them.

Yet, this one stared back at him with wide open eyes, as if punishments will not matter, almost as if he was enjoying this. Perhaps it had something to do with this master being back. Newly gained confidence?

"Mr. Potter, perhaps we should put him under the Truth Serum?" one man suggested.

"Oh yes," the werewolf purred with relish, and Harry fought the temptation to kick him in the face. "Do put me under Veritaserum. I have secrets that I'd love to share."

* * *

"My name is Adrien Florisson."

There had been no struggle at all. Florisson had been exceptionally cooperative with them. Once more, unlike many other post-war Death Eaters they'd captured. Then again, their circumstances had been different, this time was no doubt a stranger one from the rest. Though the smug look that he had on his face annoyed Harry to no end, as if this was some sort of a joke. Harry sat on the opposite side of the werewolf with his wands out while Florisson sat across from them, all limbs tied down, the rope strengthened with a charm. Beside him sat the Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, listening attentively as Adrien Florisson answered their questions.

"Is the Dark Lord alive again?" Kingsley first asked, drawing out a chuckle from the captive, who hissed a yes. He then sat back and closed his eyes, anguish and despair written all over his face, as well as a slight edge of panic.

"What is this attack's intention," Harry asked, not faltered by the gesture displayed.

Florisson's golden eyes flickered over him instantly, and an even smugger look took over his expression. "That was a warning."

"A warning," Harry repeated flatly. "Explain."

"You Mudblood-lovers are careless and ignorant," he whispered. "The lord knew that no one would believe it if he doesn't make a show of his return. The attack was a display of his new power, demonstrating to all fools as well as any disloyal doubters just what he can and _will_ do once he took back his rightful power. We will show no more mercy, and will kill with no hesitation."

Harry frowned. "You're a werewolf. Were you a part of Greyback's pack?"

At this Florisson raised his head with pride and, with no resistance whatsoever against the serum, replied, "That imbecile has always been too violent and wild for the Dark Lord's taste. I'm not part of his pack, I'm proud to _not_ be."

"You do not struggle against us," Kingsley finally said, snapping out of his shock. "Why is that?"

"I was ordered to be captured and tell you the truth."

Harry had no idea what to say to that. He was... disturbed. Voldemort was really back, more powerful than ever- _no, that's not true. The attack may be a show, but that doesn't mean he didn't put his full power into it, and after all, he took us by surprise. And this attack was no where near what I've felt from him during the Battle of Hogwarts. _Still, the mere fact that Voldemort had stood in front of him in the body of someone else worried him to no end. The memory of him hearing about Bellatrix Lestrange possessing a Horcrux didn't help either.

Then this.

Was Voldemort this sure of himself now? Did he really feel secured to the point of ordering a minion to _tell_ Harry his plan?

"Where is the Dark..." The Minister pressed his lips together and said the next word with a spat, "....Lord?"

"Oban," came the swift replied, followed by a smirk.

"Scotland?"

Florisson's eyes rolled over his and pin-pointed his stare straight at Harry. "He said he's waiting for you."

* * *

Five years ago, the Wizarding world of Great Britain was in a little golden era of advancement and euphoria. Harry remembered it; a short two years of absolute shine for them. People walked on the streets, cheering and laughing with freedom as if freedom itself never ceased to have gone away from humanity before. Businesses were once again prosperous, and everyday, the _Daily Prophet_ brought them news of hope instead of the gloomy, soul-depressing, one-sided lies of articles it used to publish before.

Harry was the hero of all that, he was their one and only savior, a celebrity. And for a while, their _only_ celebrity. He was the one the prophecy had chosen. He defeated the feared Dark Lord they all loathed.

But now, as he lay on the couch watching the firelight flickering in the hearth, he wondered if all that celebration had really been what Voldemort'd made it out to be- pure carelessness and ignorance of other possibilities.

Because if they'd checked with more caution, they would've detected something strange with Bellatrix Lestrange's body. If they'd taken into consideration of the fact that this was the _Dark Lord_, the wizard who'd casted fear into the hearts of many, if they had not underestimated Voldemort's power and cunningness, they could've prevented some of that day's destruction from happening. All of the destruction and chaos, to be more precise.

_I was suppose to be his killer. I was the one to bring him down forever._

And yet, the prophecy, too, had not held true to its words, as proven by Voldemort's revival.

_I wonder why. Was Dumbledore wrong? Were we wrong about this? Divination is wild, were we too planted on one idea and completely put all the other possibilities out of our minds?_

_No._

_Florisson said he was waiting for _me_, not anyone else. I am still the one._

_For now, at least._

The doubts slowly faded from the surface of his thoughts as his eyes began to grow heavier and heavier.

_I still haven't write an apology to Emma Dobbs about leaving her in the middle of a date, have I? I'll do that tomorrow, then._

_And there is still Malfoy too._

_No, what happened was pure absurd. I will write an apology to him as well._

_Oh, fuck that._

* * *

"Because I'm the only he wants to kill, Hermione, and that is why I will be attending this mission personally. Besides, just think about it. If I sent a squad out and they fall for his traps, we'll just be wasting more and more people. If I go, things will be solved more smoothly, and if lucky, without any waste of Auror power."

Hermione looked ready to strangle him.

"Harry James Potter! I can't believe you!" she roared, as if she had not heard a thing he just said. "Don't you know that if you're gone from here just how insecure the people will feel?! You are their savior. If you leave England, they will go berserk. It's _you_ who gives them a sense of safety."

"Voldemort is back!" he pointed out. "He is out to destroy. You should have seen what he'd done to the building's wards. His Death Eaters infiltrated through the Ministry and into the Department of Mysteries. _He_ was in the Death Chamber with me himself! Do you seriously need more reasons?"

"I don't care!"

"You don't- Now, now I know you're not thinking straight." He shook his head. "It's Voldemort, and it's my job to kill him."

She huffed and puffed and looked ready to scream again when she collapsed onto the chair beside her, breathing through both her nose and her mouth soundly. Her hand was placed on her forehead as her eyes closed. "Harry, the prophecy... Him being back means it didn't work, so if you just walk into this whole... mess like a blind man, Merlin knows what will happen. You don't even have the time to settle down with a family yet; I thought that was what you want. I thought you're over with fighting and was ready for some nice office job like the one you have right now before taking a wife and producing some godchildren for me and Ron!"

Harry raised both of his eyebrows. "Have you been around Molly lately?"

"Oh shush you," she whispered, giving him a mild glare. "We all thought you were going to marry Ginny."

He shrugged at that, and tried to focus on the trainee registration form on his desk instead.

"You know Harry, some times I just wonder about you. You say you're not ready to marry. You say you find women _ugly_ all of the sudden, for no reason whatsoever. Then you go mope in this office after every single failed date, and now you just don't seem to care anymore. All your plans about having a family and children, and your... love life. It's a fucking mess now!" She paused. "I mean, look at you. _You're_ a mess."

"Of course it is, and this mission isn't going to make things any worse than it already is," he said, not even looking up.

Harry hated it whenever she'd talk about the way his "love life" was, and it'd been more than just once that she'd suggested relationship counseling and therapy to him. Of course, no matter how angry he would get from her lectures- and half of the time, she completely screwed up on what he really meant.

Hermione couldn't really be blamed, he decided. A Veela will be a Veela, it wasn't her fault. She didn't know.

He thought about telling her once, but he knew she wouldn't think it as that big of a deal, and she'd think the rest of the world wouldn't mind him either. The ex-Granger may be smart, but it was another thing about her talkative mouth, especially with her pregnancy to increase her temper and bad attitude.

"I just don't think it's worth it-"

"That's preposterous talk. Of course it's worth it."

"But you could die!"

"So could other people!"

Hermione bit her lips. "I just want to see you happy and trouble-free for _once_ in your life! Settle down and truly love someone!"

"It's not going to happen any time soon if Voldemort still lives," he pointed out.

And she sat back, sulking while rubbing her swollen belly thoughtfully. Harry ignored her again, trying to return his attention to the pile of paperworks he had to complete before going on this mission. Of course, there was always the planning he had to do concerning whom he will be taking with him- the battle had injured many Aurors, half of them were absent for the past days, healing at St. Mungo's.

"I promise that I'm going to come back alive," he finally told her, breaking the dreadful, dense silence that seemed to have solidified the air between them.

She quirked an eyebrow at him, mistrust written all over her face. "That's not something anyone can promise, Harry. There's no way you can keep-"

"I'll try. Have some faith in me."

* * *

_Dear Malfoy,_

_I apologize for the little incident occurred in the Department of Mysteries between you and me last week. Please understand that, because of my anger and frustration as well as the sudden curse the enemy had flung at me, I was not in total control of myself. I have acted unwisely and responded to your warning in a most disrespectful way. I am sorry for all the violations I've done to you, and you have my words that such thing will never happen again._

_Pleading forgiveness,  
Harry Potter_

-

_To Auror Draco Malfoy:_

_The Department of Magical Law Enforcement called an emergency meeting yesterday morning with the Minister regarding the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. We have decided to call for a few selected Aurors to go on a highly dangerous mission outside England. The main goal of this mission- conducted by Head Auror, Harry Potter- is to bring down the Dark Lord at all cost._

_As one of the nine chosen Aurors, we advise you to pack light, and take only your essential, everyday needs. Please be prepared and report yourself in Head Auror Potter's office no later than forty-eight hours after the date this notice is written._

_In the name of Merlin,  
Cassius Blackbone  
Representative of Wizengamot_


	9. The Most Misnamed

Helga's Crest was, indeed, a very misnamed place. For one thing, the little village was no where near the top of a mountain, nor was it the highest point of anything at all. It was located only miles away from Little Whinging, built on flat land. The village was named after a very lovely lady who lived almost a thousand years ago, Helga Hufflepuff. Though the villagers titled their home after her, there was nothing in there that resembled anything like or related to her.

Helga's Crest was a small wizarding village, constructed only one year after the fall of the Dark Lord. Its purpose was to provide the victims of the war a place after their homes were destroyed. The houses were cheaply made, and therefore they could be bought with little to no money depended on how desperate one's situation was. They were strengthened only by wards that webbed them. There were three streets, each unimaginatively assigned an ordinal number: First Street, Second Street and Third Street. A grand total of thirty-seven homes sat within the village. To Muggles' eyes, Helga's Crest looked no different than any other minor suburban neighborhoods around the area, and many tourists were turned away by the number of Muggle-Repelling Charms placed.

In number six of Second Street, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley kissed each other good night before crawling into their king size bed, both readied for a night of peaceful slumber.

They lay side by side in the dark on their backs. The only sound to be heard was a high-pitched screech of a mouse, devouring by Pig downstairs.

"I can't believe Harry did that," Hermione spoke first, couldn't stand the silence any more. "You reckon he made the right choice, Ron?"

"I don't know. I don't work for the Ministry like you," her husband answered. "But it's Voldemort, and Harry is the only person who has a chance at him." There was a pause. "And beside, he's the head Auror. He has to do _something_."

Hermione turned her head to the side. "I'm worried about him."

"You worry too much," was the immediate response. "He'd either be fine or dead, and mostly likely the first of the two. What else could possibly happen to him?"

She gave him a look. "Ron, really."

The couple turned their faces away from one another a long second later, and each continued to stare at their own little special white space on the ceiling. Hermione focused on the northwest corner of the room, admiring the dark shadow casted and the sharpness of the line that separated it from the beamed light of the moon. Ron examined the small, nearly white square at the center of the room, framed by shadow. The paint of that square was flawless, unlike many others, a lot of which were consisted of numerous cracks and rough bumps. This one was perfect.

"You know, Ron," the wife started again. "About Harry... I think there is something wrong with him that he isn't aware of. It just that I've been thinking about the way he's living, dating all these women and dumping them one after another like used tissues. And he's always depressed about it, as if he was the one being dumped. Do you get what I'm saying, love? I don't think he's happy with women- he told me more than once that he found us boring, and even worse, ugly! Then came that Skeeter article... And things just seems to click together. And really, I don't know if this is true, even though I've been pondering about it for over a year now. But I'd just thought of it a few moments ago again, and this could be the only explanation as to _why_. I think- Ron... Ron are you awake?"

A snore worthy of a pig responded, and Hermione sighed, deciding that she, too, should get some sleep that night.

* * *

"Can't it wait?" Harry Potter frowned at his best female friend as he waved his wand, transforming the leftover pile of the _Daily Prophet_ into wooden chairs. "The Introductory Convention is starting-" A quick _Tempus_. "-Now. Actually, it has to wait. Is it really _that _important?"

Hermione frowned back. "Yes, Harry James Potter. This is life-changing for you."

The Head Auror rolled his eyes and sighed. "All right, what is it?"

Hermione took a deep breath and closed her eyes, silently telling herself that she had prepared this speech. It was only a matter of Harry not blowing up, of course; that was the hard part. "Harry," she began in a clear voice. "First of all, I want you to know that I, as a very good friend, support you very much. Whomever you may become or how angry, or in denial, or mad at me you'd become will not change that. We are friends, and I will stand by your side forever. Or until my death, which ever comes first, obviously."

Harry melted into a smile, and despite her loyalty to Ron, she could but swooned a little inside as a part of her brained nagged her. Merlin, the wonder that smile did. Who knew how many women fell for it?

"Thanks for to support, 'Mione. I really appreciate it. But there's really no need to worry. I'd either be dead or alive, and I really don't have a reason to be mad at you..."

"No Harry, that's not all-"

The creaking of the office door interrupted her, and in stepped three Aurors, chattering amongst themselves. Seeing Harry, they all stopped at once and gave a salutation of respect before eyeing the conjured up chairs, searching for the one that suited their preference the best.

"Good day, Harry! Mrs. Weasley, I'm surprised to see you here!" The female of the three Aurors flashed a teeth-showing smile at the Potter and attempted to shake Hermione's hand. Cassia Flintstones, was that her name? "Oh my, your belly certainly had grown since the last time I saw you, and that was only a month ago! How's baby Billius coming along?"

"Her name is Libera, or Libby," Hermione corrected, her expression darkened at the thought of Ron's stubbornness. "Or Hanson if she turns out to be a boy."

The female Auror's eyes lit up. "Oh, pardon me, Mr. Weasley told me different and-"

Harry didn't hear the rest. The door opened again, and in walked four more Aurors, each behind the other. He returned their salutations of respect, and immediately noticed the difference between the first group and the second one. These were the older, more trained Aurors who'd faced Voldemort before in battle. Many had visible scars and solemn looks on their faces that silenced the younger ones instantly with their shot glances. The earlier group seemed to have straightened up from the slouched, carefree positions in theirs seats. Flintstones took a seat.

Hermione looked irritated and relieved at the same time.

"I really need to say what I'm here to say," she muttered to Harry as the murmurs started to die down. "This is far too public."

"I don't have time for this-"

"Harry," she hissed. "I just want you to... see yourself before you die!"

He gave her a mocking, hurtful look.

"I-"

"Head Potter." A soft, low voice of an older Auror snapped his attention away. "I believe we're ready to begin."

And quickly, he ushered a protesting Hermione out of his office, cheeks flushed with slight embarrassment as she screamed at him for being uncaring and insensitive about himself. He heard snorts of giggle behind his back when he spelled the door close, and grimaced at the played scene. _What could be so damn important?_

"Mr. Potter." The same voice said again and he turned around to face the team.

"I apologize," he said to the group. "We will now start."

There were two empty chairs. The sight brought a frown to his face. "I was told there will be nine following me on this mission. Where are Presley and Malfoy?" The little crowd stirred when he said Malfoy, and almost all of them adopted a disapproving face at the name. This made Harry grimace even more. He knew this would cause some reaction. There had been an uproar within the Ministry when Malfoy passed the Auror training. Now assigning a former Death Eater to a mission against Voldemort? Many people would see it as absurd. Harry had expected this reaction.

He had been the one to pick out Malfoy- the man was a superb dueler, knew about Death Eaters more than anyone else in the department and was skilled in Occlumency.

The ridiculous voice began to coo again. Harry blocked it out. _Shut up, stupid voice. My being a Veela is the last thing I should have on my mind right now. These are the only reasons why I chose Malfoy._The thought of the voice cooing with pleasure at the mention of the Malfoy upset him a little. He pushed that aside as well.

"Auror Presley is still in St. Mungo's, healing," Cassia Flintstones informed, gazing up at him through thick eyelashes, ignoring several scowls sent in her direction.

_A mistake then. The Wizengamot must have thought he was one of the bodily-able Aurors._ "Malfoy then?" He saw several sneers.

"Maybe he cowered," Flintstones suggested with amusement with an undertone of mockery. "Merlin knows why..."

_We are going to have problems, aren't we?_ The cooing voice had stopped, a low snarl took its place, and a flood of disappointment washed through him.

"Well, I suppose we'd have to go on without-"

The door opened.

Everybody took one look at Malfoy, and tensed.

* * *

The first thing he saw were the glares, which he quickly dismissed. Yes, they were annoying, but he had expected this.

The next thing he noticed was the big frown on Potter's face and the way those narrowing green eyes followed him as he took a seat beside a rather pink-faced old wizard, who shifted slightly away from him as if he was something disgusting. He fought the temptation to sneer at Potter at the remembrance of the Entrance Chamber, not caring for the rude gesture at all.

"Very well, we're all here," Potter said, finally averting his eyes away and focused on the group of Aurors as a whole instead.

Draco looked around, wondering who was in this group of "we". To his right, sat the old Auror who shifted in his seat, an old, grey-beard man who might be his late sixties; Angus Grey, Draco remembered him to be one of them who'd been assigned to watch Malfoy manor when him and Narcissa were being put under house arrest for a month rather than sentenced to Azkaban after Lucius fled. The sight of a possible enemy working with him didn't sit well, and he bit back a snarl, retained himself from glaring at Potter for putting him into this situation.

There was also that Flintstones woman with her auburn hair and sharp chin. He had fought the urge to slap the bitch in the face when she gave him a menace look as he was passing by her. Three years Draco's senior, she had been one of those witches who joined the Auror department solely to woo Potter. So far, their superior had barely given her a glance. Had his status not been so low, she would've been the object of his mockery when she tried to curse him on day one.

The others barely looked at him, nor did he knew their faces well enough to know their names.

"I trust that we know what this mission is all about. Voldemort-" They flinched. "-is back. According to a werewolf captive whom we questioned under Veritaserum, he has fled to Oban, Scotland. We are to take him and his Death Eaters down permanently, and make sure he will not revive again."

The Flintstones bitch raised her hand. "Why is he here?" Draco did not need to see the head motion to know she was referring to him. His hands clenched into fists as he stared up into Potter's face calmly. Breathes were held, waiting for an answer.

"Because Auror Malfoy is a highly-trained fighter who will make a great addition to the team."

"Or a great traitor-"

"Auror Flintstones," the green-eyed man said, the chill in his voice sent a tingle up Draco's spine. "The last thing we need is division amongst ourselves. I am sure Auror Malfoy knows his stands and loyalty."

"Oh sure he does."

"Flintstones," Potter barked.

The woman put on an innocent smile. "I'm sorry for such rude questioning, Harry. You see, I was taught to not trust Death Eaters."

Draco sucked in a deep breath. _She should know not to trust me. Oh she should know very soon._ The thought of inflicting permanent damage on her seemed very appealing to him at the moment._You watch what a Malfoy can do. When I'm done with you, you'll never see light again._

"If you're this discriminative against your fellow colleague, perhaps team missions aren't for you, Cassia. Perhaps you need to go back to the training stage." He saw her lips pressed thin. "That was a warning. Any other questions?"

Draco raised his hand. "Surely you'd explain to us how You-Know-Who came back."

"He hid a Horcrux within Bellatrix Lestrange. Most likely he had her body go through a Dark ritual to preserve her life before the Battle of Hogwarts so even after Molly Weasley cut above her heart, she will live. We still haven't figure out yet of how he managed to take on another body, since he's obviously not in Lestrange's body during the attack," he explained swiftly. "Anything else?

"I am positive that we will face a werewolf pack in this mission. They are dangerous even when full moon is far away, their bites will do significant and unpredictable damage to you even if they're not transformed, and they're immune to most of our spells. I trust all of you are wearing your Mercury rings." Potter scanned their visible hands, and nodded with satisfaction when he saw the thin bands of silver around their right middle fingers. The rings will melt into liquid mercury at _Eris Latex_ and was to be flung into the werewolf's eyes.

_That isn't going to be very protective, _Draco thought to himself, scoffing at the shallowness of a typical Auror's ante-mission preparation. _What if there are too many werewolves? So little silver..._Unfortunately, mercury was not cheap.

"I call on all of you for your past experiences with Death Eaters rather than your skills. Your records has shown that you've all fought against, or have been in contact with Death Eaters and are familiar with their ways. The battles we are going to fight are not going to be any different than the battles being fought in the Second war, only perhaps on a smaller scale and with more werewolves involved. The Death Eaters are most likely to be the ones we already know about, unless Voldemort-" They flinched again. "-recruited more people, which is highly unlikely judging by the less than minor population change.

"I said this a moment ago and I am going to say it again. I will lecture this more if I have to in the future." His stern eyes wandered over each and every one of them, reminding Draco very much of the way McGonagall's eyes had raked over the students in their first year of Hogwarts. There was a certain foreign sharpness to his expression Draco has never seen on his face before.

"There will be no division within us. I don't care if the person next to you is a serial murderer." There were several snorts. "We need Voldemort dead and we need all of us in this.

"Traitors will be sent straight to Azkaban without a trial." His eyes were deliberately avoiding looking at Draco. "You may back out now." Nobody moved. "I am going to be very clear on this. Make any last minute preparation you need to make. We'll be off in ten minutes."


	10. The Most Random

The Veela voice had been acting strange lately. For the first few days on the mission, it'd been purring non-stop whenever Harry was near Malfoy. A strange sensation in Harry's groin would stir every time it did so. It had been happy, overly-infatuated with Malfoy's close presence, acting like a lovesick puppy. At days, Harry would feel his body heat up and himself harding whenever the man came near him. At night, he had dreams.

A blush would bloomed on his face every time he remembered those dreams, and a tsunami of distress would followed. He'd taken a lot of time reading the mating chapter in _Guide on Veelas, _and had made an accurate assumption- because the book focused greater on full female Veelas rather than part-Veelas or male Veelas- that Malfoy was his chosen mate. This brought up certain questions when Harry recapped the quote, "A Veela or a part Veela only stays with the one whom can compete with her in every way possible, a being who is to her, the most attractive of them all."

_Malfoy is certainly not the most attractive person I know. His cold expression is practically unbearable if one had to be with him everyday. His resistance is annoying. His attitude is annoying. The way he defies and glares at me every other second aggravates me to no end._

_But you like it despite that_, the voice would whisper. _You like it when he snaps and disobeys you, because you can see how wild he is. It's quite turning to think if he'd be that way in bed._

Harry growled and pushed it away.

_Besides, he isn't my destined mate. A Veela can't have a destined mate. There is no perfect half for anyone. I only chose him because he is the best choice I know of._

_How strange too. Why a man, and why him?_

Everyday, the voice urged Harry to approach Malfoy, nudging his physical movements, even. He fought back the urging each time and kept a straight, cold face for the man, not letting a hint slip. Malfoy did not know of his Veela inheritance; no one did and he planned it to remain that way. He did not trust Malfoy with such secret either.

It was the way the voice had acted until they arrived at Calve Island, a little uninhabited island on the east coast of Isle of Mull.

It'd grown quiet, like some sort of predator was watching it and it was the prey. Once or twice, it'd go back to its normal flaunting over Malfoy, then, when the blond went away, the silence would overtake it again.

The strangeness relieved and worried Harry at the same time. This had never happened before, and Harry wished he'd brought _Guide on Veelas _with him to the mission. The reason he didn't was because of the risk of someone finding out. But now, he was sure that something was wrong with him. If he only had the book.

* * *

When Cassia Flintstones first saw Harry Potter's photo on the front page of the _Daily Prophet _after the war, she knew he was the one. At the time she was a twenty-two year old apprentice to Horace Slughorn and potion had been her life's only passion. She was the only Gryffindor who'd managed to make all Os in that class throughout the seven Hogwarts years despite Professor Snape's prejudice against her house.

Cassia remembered Harry. She was in her third year when he came to the school, looking all short and scrawny in the bagged clothes which were all ten size too big for him. She'd never taken interest in him. Sure, he was the Boy-Who-Lived all right, but his title never appealed to her before. He did get somewhat handsome in his fourth year- by that time, she was in her seventh- but still nothing about him caught her eyes. After all, he was younger than her by three years, and she happened to be a pretty girl with boys after her all the time.

That all changed with one photo. Seven months post-war, she fell in love with him on first sight. He'd grown into her dream man. From his pouting lips to his large, gem-like green eyes, Harry Potter captured her heart without even meeting her.

Almost immediately, she abandoned her potion apprenticeship and chased after her new obsession. She joined the Auror training program with him, though, Harry was at the finishing level when she started. By the time she made it past her final test, he was already the department's most skilled fighter. That was no surprise, of course. By the time she'd gained the others' respect, Harry had risen to the Head position.

She was finally there with him, Cassia had thought.

And he never paid an ounce of attention to her. No, every single moment of his available time was focused on all the other people who were completely unworthy of him. He dated airheads who'd only give him empty praises and a spread of legs. He made eyes with bimbos who's dream of life was to be the next Arabelle Zabini. He was always unhappy, always changing women. He wouldn't look at her.

Then Draco Malfoy made a breakthrough and became an Auror, and life became even more complicating.

Everyday, it was Malfoy this and Malfoy that. Every morning, the first thing Harry'd look at was the Death Eater. Cassia knew this was for security reasons because Harry could never be gay- what an unthinkable thought! But jealousy boiled in her vein whenever she saw Malfoy.

Now, he was on this mission with them. Never mind the other two female Aurors on the team; Betsy Lise was a married woman in her late fifties, and the other woman Amelia Grace, while joined for the same reason, was no competition. The girl lacked in beauty, and if she'd paid any attention to the recent Daily Prophet article Rita Skeeter wrote, she'd know by now to step out and quit. Malfoy was her only rival here.

_Disturbing, but I wouldn't put it pass him. He could be a ponce as well as a cowardly murderer._

"What are you doing?" Amelia asked as she pour into a cauldron three teaspoons of unicorn tears.

"Harry requested a new supply of Veritaserum. I'm making it for him," she lied. The other girl nodded stupidly. Cassia sneered. She was probably one of them who couldn't remember a thing about potion from her Hogwarts years. If she did, she'd know that the truth serum did not require any unicorn related ingredients. "Why don't you go check with Lise outside? She might need help tending our dinner."

"All right."

All she needed was to make Malfoy look like a traitor, then, bye-bye to Azkaban.

With that thought, she happily dumped into the cauldron a cup of crushed faery wing.

* * *

Being stuck in an empty manor for five years made one appreciate beauty more.

Narcissa stood by a thin tree, gazing onward at the Sound of Kerrera. Green grass brushed her bare feet softly as she strolled the green field, the warm earth felt damp beneath them. A cool breeze traveled through the air and she inhaled the sweet scent of mother nature. The breeze combed through her blond hair, dried her lips and compelled her eyes to close. _Just enjoy, _it whispered_. Enjoy. _The bank of the Sound was beautiful, free of Muggle pollution. She could almost relax here, almost, had it not been the two werewolves guarding her.

Two females accompanied her, their watchful eyes made her feel unsettled. Normally, she'd scream under such guarding. Her fear of Greyback and his pack had remained with her for years and she often had nightmares about him eating little children, as he had done countless times during the Dark Lord's taking of their manor right in front of them. Every time, he'd lift up his head and give her a grin, as if she was his next meal. The way his teeth gnawed on flesh as his victim screamed made her stomach churn and the hair on her neck stood up. She often imagined him to go after Draco next, or Lucius, or worse like suggested, her.

A shiver ran through her body. She hated werewolves. Disgusting cannibals, they were all once human.

She longed to see her husband again, she missed his touch, missed the way his eyes wandered on her. She wanted Lucius with her. She wanted her son with her. Draco. Her family...

One of the bitches shifted as tears welled up in her eyes and growled softly. The noise sounded like a puppy's first attempt to sound tough, only to come out as amateurish at best, but Narcissa knew what the maker of it was capable of doing to her.

"Five minutes left," the monster said.

* * *

For two weeks of scouting, they found no signs of Voldemort anywhere in Oban. Tracing charms placed over the large area could not come up with a single evidence of dark activities. The Dark Mark Detecting charms brought up no results either, leading up to more confusion. For the time of their stay, the little town remained a peaceful place. Muggles went about doing Muggle doings. There were no deaths, no trace of a werewolf pack, no warning or hints.

Harry wondered if Florisson had lied to them, but decided that it was an impossibility; Veritaserum hid no truth, unless Voldemort purposely gave Florisson the wrong information, leading him to believe that it was the truth.

The first attack came on a Monday night during a full moon.

A pack of twenty transformed werewolves leaped out of the water, triggering every ward around the island. All alarms went off simultaneously, screeching like hawks.

Harry was in his tent observing the map of Scotland when an anguish howl that shook his mind followed the blaring alarms. He found himself freezing with fright as the others stirred and cried outside, and it took him seconds to snatch his wand from the desk and run out, only to be face with the sight of seven advancing dark lupine figures, each twice as big as an average normal wolf. Seven from one angle. Five from another. The remaining eight came from behind him.

The first to fire a curse was Steven Weasley, whom Harry thought was positive to be one of Ron's many cousins by the surname and the wild red hair, though the signature freckles were missing. The man, ten years older than Harry, charged forward towards the group of seven by the edge of their outer wards, which the wolves were trying to claw through, and shot out a cutting curse of silver light that resembled blades. The light brought back the first group more than the curse itself did, which they were able to shrug off like nothing, and they reeled back.

Harry slided one thin ring of mercury off his finger, held it up and muttered the melting spell.

"Prepare for battle," he said, but it was not needed. The others were already on the move.

"Since werewolves are invulnerable against most of our legal curses, I ask for your temporary permission to use the Unforgivables, Head Potter." Harry's head jerked to the speaker, half expecting it to be Malfoy. One of the older Aurors- Octavius Reed- met his eyes, the man's face set with determination and glee. Harry could almost feel the anticipation radiating off him. He had to be one of them who fought in the First War as well as the Second, and in the First, Aurors were given permission to use the curses legally.

"If you must, Auror Reed," he answered him. The other elder Aurors straightened up as the younger ones' faces twisted with slight disbelieve save Malfoy. "We're fighting enemies," he proceeded to explain. "I am sure that under the circumstance with their immunity, this is allow. I grant you all permission to use the Unforgivables for the time being."

_I'm going to have a hard time explaining this to Kingsley_, he thought with a sigh, and lifted the outer wards.

* * *

The first spell Draco fired was Avada Kedavra. They green light came swiftly from the end of his wand as he muttered the incantation in his head, and it brought the first attacker down, cutting the madden howl off in mid-cry.

The practice he did in Malfoy manor using animals and bugs really paid off. Once afraid to kill, a fear that nearly cost him his life back in his sixth year when he failed to murder Dumbledore, the death of another was nothing to him now. Through self-training, he could kill and kill and not feel a thing. Being an Occlumen helped with the suppressing of fear and guilt.

The practice paid off. It destroyed a weakness. Draco smirked as he held another approaching wolf under the Cruciatus curse, smirked as he recalled his intention for practicing. First, it had been for Lucius as revenge for the abandonment. Then it had been for hatred towards the wizarding world; how they pushed and beaten him never left his mind. The mental wounds the Ministry inflicted on his mother was as unforgivable as the Unforgivables. Now, it had been for duty.

Draco killed the tortured werewolf with another swift sway of his wand and went on his way. He shall waste no more time fooling around.

A grey bitch stood solemnly outside the fight, her golden eyes met him and her mouth bared into a snarl, showing pointy teeth worthy of a vampire's. Draco kept his wand leveled as she prowled towards him, graceful and deadly in her movement. Out the corner of his eyes, he could see that the others were too occupied. One of the older fools was already down and out. The ones around his age like Flintstones were too hesitating, trying to resort to legal curses instead of quick termination. They paid him no heed.

Without warning, the grey one leaped and torn a part of his robe off and ripped it to shreds as if the cloth was him. Draco stood still as she took unleashed her madness. She was angry, yes, because he killed two of her pack mates, but she could not kill him.

Draco held up a mercury ring and watched her backing off from him, snarling with hatred. He smiled a cold smile.

She spat at him.

It was done.

Draco lifted his wand again and the bitch howled, an ugly sound louder than anything he had heard this night. Impossible rage overrode her body and the Wolfbane potion she'd swallowed. Draco calmly stepped aside as she lunged at him.

"_Avada Kedavra._" The werewolf fell.

* * *

Amelia never got to kill her target.

It was a male; she always referred to such creature like them as "it" because they were never human enough to take the other two gender-specific pronouns to her. Two werewolves from Greyback's pack had killed her father during the First war when her family had tried to remain neutral. Her mother had persisted that they seek Dumbledore for aid, of course, but her father stood firm on "no", believing they were safe.

She never knew the man who sired her, she never saw a picture, only knowing what she'd learned of him from her Aunt Floris; how he'd died, the fact that he was a Muggleborn and his name, David. Her mother never talked about him. Whenever she'd ask her mother, those pair of pale lips would press thin, and she'd tell Amelia that she didn't want to talk about a coward.

Perhaps it was because she wasn't angry enough; if she was, she would have gathered enough rage to bring it down. When she was fighting it, there had only been indifference in her. No feeling of vengeance she thought she'd feel. The wolf wasn't a personal enemy at all.

Or maybe it was the fact that she was only battling it for less than fifteen minutes, and she only had the chance of firing the melted mercury and two curses; both of them vanquished when they hit the fur since werewolves are immune to most charms, jinx, hex and curses. Amelia doubt if any legal curses would work against it, but she refused to resort to using the Unforgivables.

Either way, it backed down and fled with its remaining pack mates.

The whole thing happened so fast that Amelia found it hard to comprehend for a few seconds. The others were confused as well.

"Why the fuck did they leave?" Steven Weasley asked as the last of them leaped over the ward boundary.

Five werewolves survived, fifteen dead, Amelia concluded when she finished counting the furry bodies on the ground, clutching the side of her head where the werewolf claw had slashed her. They immediately began an all out search, trying to find out if anything of value was missing. Minutes later, cries of shock and outrage rang out when Octavius Reed found one of their comrades dead.

_So someone did die. _She saw the body of Shackleton- couldn't remember his first name- in the arms of Reed.

"They stole nothing, but did do destruction to our tents," Betsy Lise reported moments later, bringing out from everyone sighs of relief.

_They took nothing, so what was the point of their attacking?_

* * *

Two days after the attack, they had Benedict Shackleton's bloody body cremated into ashes. Harry sent it away with the only owl in the team, Betsy Lise's Great Horn. He had also written to the only son of Shackleton, assuring him that his father died a hero in battle. It wasn't technically one, but he called it "battle" because the word sounded more glorious.

Then he went back to thinking about the attack. True to Lise's words, nothing was taken from them. It seemed as if the attack's only purpose was to anger and strip them of whatever man-power they had. This theory would have made more sense had they not fled away only fifteen minutes later and caused minimal damage to their tents, which were quickly mended with a couple of Patching charms.

_What are you playing at, Tom?_ The attack was pointless. Random. _Yes, that's the word. Random and without a true purpose. Those wolves targeted no one and nothing. They were only there to do silly destruction that was completely unproductive; they lost more than us. Is this guerrilla tactics you're using here, Tom, or a part of another "master plan" of yours?_

Harry snarled with frustration and pushed the giant map of Scotland away from him. The paper landed on the floor along with quills and parchments, and Harry lay his head on the wooden desk, closing his eyes.

_And the prophecy too. Am I really the one who is suppose to defeat you?_

"_Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives..."_

_I don't get it. It came true; you did died at my hand that day._

Sleep overcame him as he thought about it some more. His own voice was starting to mingle with nonsense. he tried talking with himself, thinking about Veelas and Malfoy.

Voices.

His head was unusually quiet lately-

"_Malfoy!_"

The scream that pierced Harry's ears brought him out of his slumber and he raced outside, heart pounding against his chest like beating drums. "What's going on?" he demanded and narrowed his eyes at the sight. Behind him, Aurors stirred and reached for their wands. In front of him, Cassia Flintstones had her wand out, pointing it at Malfoy's forehead like it was a Muggle gun. The blond man's face was white with fury. His wand was knocked aside by her, apparently.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"That's what I'd like to know." Malfoy said coldly, not taking his eyes off Flintstones' face. "I'm not used to being attacked for no reason."

She looked at him with pursed lips, then turned to Harry. "I caught him by the hilltop on the other side of the wood just now, digging up a hole in the dirt and planting something suspicious in the earth. I kept silent and followed him back. He's yours to punish now, Head Potter. I believe you said that a traitor is to be sent to Azkaban immediately?"

"Malfoy?"

"It was a dead rat I found rotting nearby my tent. Surely a rodent deserve a ceremonious bury?" he said. Harry frowned.

"He's lying!" Flintstones shouted and pressed the wand tip harder against Malfoy's forehead. "Who do you think would believe you, filthy _Death Eater_?! I bet you were betraying us all these times, giving away secrets to your Dark Lord! You make a terrible double age-"

"Let me see the rat," Harry cut in before any of this ridiculousness could continue. Cassia stared at him with bewilderment, and opened her mouth to protest, stopping when Harry held up a palm. "Put your wand away, Auror Flintstones. I will not tolerate such assault nor accusation against a fellow Auror next time without solid proof. Malfoy, show me the buried rat."

"But-"

"Go back to your tent, Flintstones."

She grounded her teeth together and looked at him one last time before stomping away in defeat. The rest of them disbanded as well, each returning back to their own business, this time muttering. Harry stood facing the blond, who gave him a hard glare. The lighting effect from the near by fire reflects off Malfoy's face and hair, and Harry caught his breath at the sight.

The voice gave a lazy stir and began to moon.

"Show me the rat," Harry repeated once again, feeling awkward just standing there.

Malfoy looked at him right in the eye and nodded. "It's over there by the other side of wood, Potter. A five minute walk," he said and started towards the wood. Harry followed.


	11. The Most Hated

Big thanks to my new beta, sailormulti01. You're the best. :D

* * *

Even the obnoxious chirping of crickets could not distract Draco from his racing mind as he led Potter through the forest. The wand Potter had out was unnerving, furthermore, just knowing that it was out angered him. It wasn't pointing at him, nor did Potter hold it in any threatening gesture like Flintstones had, but the mere fact it was out stirred his blood.

They didn't trust him but he should have expected that. Potter didn't trust him. He should have known that too. Still...

_This is no time for vengeful thoughts,_ he reminded himself and tucked the anger behind his Occlumency shield; a technique his aunt, Bellatrix, taught him. _One must not let emotions slip through. Dangerous things can happen to innocent people, little Draco,_ she'd said, giggling as he had silently cried with fear.

He shrugged off the thought of Bellatrix and shivered.

"Are you cold?" Potter asked from behind.

"Yes." No, he wasn't cold, but an answer was better than nothing at the moment, better than telling Potter what he was really thinking about.

The silence stretched on until Draco reached the end of the forest. He stopped and glanced back at Potter.

"I buried it over there." They stepped out into a grass field and Draco nodded his head towards a disturbed spot of brown in the mist of green. Potter gave him a serious look and went over to the spot to investigate. The green-eyed man dug his heel in the earth and kicked away the rich, damp dirt.

"Did you bury it deep?" he asked.

"No," Draco answered. "I only dug as far as six centimeters."

Potter knelt down and dug up a fistful of dirt with his hand, there was an irritated expression on his face as he did so, as if someone had forced him to do this. Obviously, he thought he was wasting his time here, trying to find a dead rat just so he could confirm Draco's loyalty.

_It's his fault, not my problem,_ Draco thought as he gazed down at his school-rival's dark hair, which looked ebony black under the moonlight. He watched as Potter tossed away little chunks of rocks and observed the shape of Potter's face, and of his lowered green eyes that resembled a cat's. His thoughts were instantly brought back to the Daily Prophet article. The two requirements flashed through his mind; beauty and a competitive personality. _What a wide range of possibility that is. In fact, one might come to the conclusion that he was in love with himself._

Draco couldn't help but chuckle at the thought of a narcissistic Potter beaming at and kissing his own reflection like he once saw Lockhart did back in a detention.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing."

Potter stared at him for a while before going back to digging.

_Beauty..._ His eyes flickered back to the brunette. Even though he was sure he never liked men and never will, he could not help but want to stare more and more, to admire the sight of perfection he never saw in anyone else before. The two emerald green eyes stood out like gems in the dark. The unruly locks that made Potter look as if he'd just had a thorough shag enhanced the vibe of eroticism – Draco immediately shook that thought off. Yes, Potter was beautiful. He was beautiful and he knew it, judging by the way he'd play with women's hearts.

A competitive personality. _He was a Gryffindor, and hated me to death in Hogwarts._ He still remembered the resentful looks Potter would send him whenever he opened a gift of sweets from his mother and he knew that Potter flew harder in games when it was against Slytherins- against Draco.

Potter picked up the rat, a look of disgust forming on his face.

"How long has it been dead for?" he asked as he took the rat by the tail and spun it around in midair before tossing it back into the hole.

"I don't know. Does it matter?" Draco answered as he watched Potter cover up the rodent and cast a wandless cleaning charm on his dirty hands.

"No."

"Does this confirm your suspicion, or are you still not willing to trust me?"

Potter froze.

"You've always been a special case ever since you got accepted into the Auror training program, Malfoy," he said after a pregnant pause and licked his lips. Draco's eyes were immediately drawn to the tongue and the wet lips. "You're a Death Eater and that's not going to change in some people's minds. I can't alter their opinions of you-"

"I'm asking if _you're_ willing to trust me," Draco interrupted.

"I've been trusting you ever since the day you've proven yourself to be worthy of being an Auror."

Draco sneered. "You've never been a good liar Potter."

The Man-Who-Lived-Twice lifted up his head and Draco glanced at him. "Maybe it's time you start trusting others, Draco, instead of waiting for people to come to you or proclaim their undying love for you; because neither of those things will happen. You're an ex-Death Eater and despite of that, I trust you because I know you've changed, but the way you act around people everyday makes you seem more like the criminal you once were than someone _fighting _crime. They have good reason not to trust and like you. I can't change that.

"And yes, I know you're upset about Flintstones' assault -"

"Because if I had done that to her instead of her to me, they would've cast Crucio on me before you even -"

"_Listen to me!_"

The sharp and glacial edge to Potter's voice made Draco flinch and keep his mouth shut. He pursed his lips and glanced up at the night sky, even though he knew that the stars wouldn't keep him distracted no matter how hard he was looking at them or how determined he was at ignoring the git.

Potter, the git, was moving closer, and he didn't like it. He wanted to reach up and push the git away. Though fully-clothed, the fact that he was so near made Draco feel naked and vulnerable, like Potter's eye will see through everything if he came too close. He could smell the brunette's soft scent, a mixture of soap and fresh grass and something else completely alien to his nose.

_Go away!_ The blond screamed in his mind.

"Malfoy." There was a pause. "You know that this could easily turn from a mission to another war, right?"

"You'll defeat Voldemort, just like you always did. Why should any of us worry?"

He heard Potter's breathing hitch, and he could picture the man's eyes closed, upset. Of course Potter would be upset, that was why he said it. Draco knew very well that he hated such statements. As much as Potter liked being a playboy, he also hated the mention of his being the world's savior.

A little smile tugged at his lips and he forced his face to stay neutral. He could never comprehend Potter's illogical ways of thinking of things. After all, the green-eyed man never seemed to have any trouble posing for a picture for the Daily Prophet when it concerned his new trophy of a girlfriend, or using his fame and status to woo said girls in the first place; but whenever someone mentioned him in the war's light...

"I'm not invincible," Potter snapped. "So counting on me to kill him and save everyone's sorry arse isn't going to get us anywhere because chances are I might not be able to."

Draco saw his chance and seized it. "Do my ears deceive me? The great Harry Potter admitting he isn't perfect? With all the articles fawning over your utter perfection, kissing your arse and worshipping the ground you walk on… I thought-"

"Don't try to change the subject to me. We're talking about _you._" And he moved closer.

"There is nothing remarkable about me."

A soft chuckle. "You are a very remarkable person, Malfoy." It wasn't a shocking statement, if one only read the words and did not hear the way Potter said it.

Draco could feel blood rushing to his face at the slight slur the man mixed with his name at the end. His hand immediately went to his wand, alarms going off everywhere in his head as his heart began to thump like a drum.

"I wish you could see yourself and see others."

"What the hell was that?" he growled and averted his sight, not caring for the fact that the way he said it sounded threatening, or the possible murderous or any other kind of un-Malfoy-ish expression he might have on his face.

He made the mistake of looking into Potter's eyes.

"See," the git muttered. "It's not about other people not trusting you- it's about you not trusting and opening up to other people."

There was a strange, alluring spark in them. A slight heat overtook him and he fought to keep himself standing.

"Draco?" The whisper was deep and husky and smooth, it reminded Draco of how Butterbeer felt when the liquor slid down his throat, how sweet the aftertaste was when he gulped it, how content and happy it made him feel. His name was so alluringly muttered. He wanted to hear it again and again and again.

A sensation stirred in his groin as Potter put a hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright?"

He wanted to hear Potter moan- _No!_

Draco tore his gaze from the other's eyes and shoved Potter away as hard as he could. In quick movements, he drew out his wand and leveled it at the other man's surprised, enraged, and very flushed face. The fact that Potter was livid did not concern him, he was as well. And what was more, the spell- whatever the _hell_ it might be_- _was Potter's doing.

"What the fuck did you do to me?!" he snarled just before Potter opened his mouth.

_You're wondering why I don't trust people like you, Potter? Because you're all a bunch of sneak who just want me dead!_

"Put your wand away, I did nothing to you." The glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by coldness.

"I knew it!"

"What are you talking about, Malfoy?"

Rage flared within Draco, and he fought back the temptation to kill Potter right then and there because he knew it would be no use. If he killed Potter, the rest of them will kill him, if he continued to accuse, the fucker would just keep on denying and making himself look innocent.

"You did something to me," he said after calming himself, keeping that harsh edge to his tone. "With your eyes. I know you're not a Legilimen, Potter, or I would have felt it. So what the fuck did you do?"

The brunette in question opened his mouth then closed it again, as if he couldn't come up with a proper explanation. "I'm sorry for any unintended harm I caused."

"You were going to put me into a trance," accused Draco again.

"It's not deliberate," Potter defended.

"So you _do_ know what it is? I think that counts as assault, don't you think so Potter?"

"Malfoy, please-"

"And will you suffer any consequences for it? I think not. You're still as special as ever, aren't you? If I had done that to you, Flintstones wouldn't have hesitated to force Veritaserum down my throat and ship me to Azkaban! But you, no, you're Golden Boy, you get away with everything- Don't come near me!"

* * *

"I said not to come near me!"

The words barely registered in his head as he took another step forward when Malfoy took one back. The Veela's voice overcrowded his mind, making a sound that rung with triumph, anger and eagerness at the same time. Triumph, because it knew Harry had swayed Draco's mind for a while. Anger, because the blond fought it off. Eager, because the fact that he fought free excited it, and because the Veela in him was excited, Harry felt excited as well.

He would love nothing more than to slam Draco Malfoy up against a tree trunk and fuck the brain out of him, turning the stubborn refusal into willingness right then and there.

But no, he couldn't do that. What Malfoy might see it as would surely kill any chances of further advance. Besides, they were on a mission that held the fate of the whole wizarding world. Doing something like chasing after Malfoy wasn't an option now. What if he failed? What if Voldemort finished him while he was distracted?

"You can put down your wand now. I'm not in the mood to duel with you," he said, his voice quivering with self-restraint. Malfoy did not react. Harry tried again, this time using a softer tone one might expect him to be using with a little child. "You'll gain nothing by killing me, you'd get killed yourself. I meant you no harm."

The wand lowered slowly.

"I hate you," Malfoy spat at him, and walked away.

Harry watched as he disappeared from view. A mournful cry began, wanting him to chase after his mate and wrap the man in his arms. A haunting song echoed in his mind, and little by little, the Veela's anguish and sorrow broke his heart.

The ache was distant but tears welled in his eyes anyway. Harry wiped them away and started to head back as well.

* * *

Draco dreamt.

He was in a dark corridor. The candles were put out and he dared not light his wand with Lumos. The only source of brightness came from the outside where the sky raged, lightning flashed, and thunder crackled. The rain splattered like explosions on the window panes. Looking down, Draco could see he was no longer wearing his Auror robe but a familiar dark robe with a certain green crest sewn on it. There were footsteps beside him.

Lucius.

The sight of his father startled him and he immediately tried to lift his wand, but somehow, he couldn't. His father muttered something inaudible in response.

"What?" he asked, surprised at how small and timid his voice came out.

The muttering grew louder and Draco could hear now that it wasn't normal speech, but Parseltongue, the elder Malfoy was speaking. His eyes widened with fright and shock. A smirk played on the other blond's face as the skin grew pale, _inhumanly_ pale. Lucius' well-groomed hair fell off the person's scalp, one strand at a time. The face morphed, eyes growing into slits that bled crimson red.

The Dark Lord stood before him, and suddenly, Draco realized where and when he was.

This was that time, three days before the first day of his Sixth year. He took the Dark Mark on that day. Voldemort pointed a long, bony finger at him. His left arm burned.

"I don't want it," he pleaded, shaking his head frantically, trying to scramble away. Something held him to his place.

Voldemort gave a hideous grin and he choked down a cry.

"_Sectumsempra!_"

Blood ruptured everywhere. A slice just above his heart, a cut on his arm, an invisible knife stabbed his leg and _ripped_ itself from his flesh. His neck was cut opened.

Draco screamed and rolled around in his own blood while his right hand clutched his left arm, where the pain was the greatest. Images started to appear in his mind.

There was a little Muggle girl playing a game of rope skipping with her friends. They were laughing so happily, with smiles that rivaled the warmth of the sun itself. The little Muggle girl was counting her skips. She was almost at a hundred. There was a green flash before she could count to ninety-nine.

A man was going to a job interview. He had on his best Sunday suit and a professional looking briefcase. He was excited because it would be his first job as he had just got out of college. A wolf jumped out of the shadow and bit off his head. Then it began to tore at his flesh, feasting.

A scream rang out and was silenced at once. A woman was being raped by a masked monster who laughed with delirious delight. The lights went out. Muggle police sirens filled in with the chaotic noises, soon followed by the sound of metal crushed together and men dying as a spell set the cars on fire.

Blood dripped from a sign. The sign read, "Welcome to The Town of Oban".

"_The sunset before the next full moon, tell him that,_" came the hiss. Draco lay on his blood-soaked back in his Hogwarts robes, not moving or saying anything. He couldn't move or speak even if he wanted to.

Potter weeped in the distance.

"_Do you see the Chosen One, young Malfoy?_"

The wounds disappeared as Potter came closer and closer. For a moment, Draco's heart clenched and ached at the beautiful sight of the other man's handsome face. Desire poured over his body, scaring him. It felt as if someone had rubbed salt all over the remaining cut- painful, but it still felt good at the same time.

Potter was picking him up. His arms were strong and comforting. A pair of lips gently brushed against his own and told him that everything will be fine and he had nothing to worry about as long as his Harry was there.

Draco shivered with delight into the kiss - savoring the tenderness, not even giving a thought to who it was.

Then everything went cold.

"_Break him! Break him like he broke me!"_

Potter vanished. His left forearm pounded and pulsed and he woke up, drenched in cold sweat.

* * *

Draco had never wanted anything more in his life than to cut off his left arm at that moment.

The first time he had the idea was when he realized that his plan to kill Albus Dumbledore was going to fail, and he and his parents would be brutally murdered and be shamed if Voldemort rose to power again. Draco knew that a loss of a limb would be a small price to pay compared to what kind of torture Voldemort would perform on them. The thought was then buried by more fear seconds later.

The second time was right after he saw Snape killing Dumbledore for him. Knowing he had failed, he became scared, tracing his blackened mark as he wondered what the Dark Lord would do to him once he found out.

Then, fantasies of dislodging that limb became frequent in the period of time when the Dark Lord used Malfoy Manor as a Safehouse.

Sometimes, he imagined burning the arm off, or chopping it off neatly like he once saw a house elf butchering a chicken's neck. Those were the mildest of the fantasies.

All he wanted was to be free of Voldemort's clutch. All he wanted to do was to flee his home. Once, he envisioned ridding the marked arm and running to the Orders for shelter. It would have been a good future but it never came true; Voldemort saw to that, mocking Draco's feeble dreams as Bellatrix tortured him with relish. There was no way he could escape the sight of the skull and snake, even if he cut that part of his body off. It will simply reappear elsewhere on his body. Would he cut himself into bits and pieces trying to get rid of it? How foolish he was, trying to escape the greatest lord ever existed.

Thinking about the Dark Lord, Draco put his pillow to his face and bit, muffling a scream. The muscle of his left forearm throbbed, manipulating his flesh and rattled his bones. The Parseltongue hissing echoed in his head.

_He's planning to attack the afternoon before the next full moon. He's planning to annihilate the Muggle town, and he brought this to me through my Dark Mark. _Draco threw the only thing he had in his hands, the pillow, as hard as he could at the ground.

_He expects me to bring this information to Potter. _At the name of the Head Auror, he wrapped the blanket around his body. _Testing, he's testing me. I could either let the Muggles die or give Potter to him by telling them about the attack, which is surely a trap._

_I wonder why he didn't communicate this to Potter through his oh-so-special scar._

He didn't want to do anything, but he had to.

Draco tucked the fear away and got up from the bed, knowing exactly what he should do as the image of a person appeared in his mind.

For the one person who truly cared for him, he had no problem with sending the rest of them to hell.

_Maybe Potter and the Dark Lord can finish each other off and save me the trouble,_ he mused in his mind, trying to sound cheerful. But for some reason, the thought of a dead Harry Potter did not sit well with him. He didn't want Potter dead.


End file.
